


Opia

by wanderlust96



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (in his own dysfunctional way), ...Kinda, Abandonment, Biting, Broken Bones, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Castration, Codependency, Conditioning, Dark Will, Dark Will Graham, Emotional Manipulation, Gift Giving, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Manipulation, Murder Husbands, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsession, Parent Death, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Restraints, Revenge, Sassy Will Graham, Scars, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Someone Help Will Graham, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, at least for Will, rape is implied not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 61,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlust96/pseuds/wanderlust96
Summary: Hannibal had wandered upon him entirely by mistake.On a hunt like any other, Hannibal finds someone unexpected in his victim's basement.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 812
Kudos: 2455





	1. Mal De CouCou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mal De CouCou: a phenomenon in which you have an active social life but very few close friends— an acute social malnutrition in which even if you devour an entire buffet of chitchat, you’ll still feel pangs of hunger.  
> ~The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

Hannibal had wandered upon him entirely by mistake; had almost left until – dragging his most recent victim in tarpaulin through the pattering rain – he had noticed that the narrow basement windows were boarded from the inside. He let the wrapped legs fall to the ground with a dull thud and reassessed the rundown dwelling with new eyes.

A boarded window could hide a multitude of sins. Stolen goods, sexual deviancy, drug manufacturing or any number of equally banal pursuits. He tilted his head and wondered if deviating from his original plan would make up for a kill that had been entirely unfulfilling or if the basement’s contents would make him even angrier that the ill-mannered mechanic currently wrapped in plastic had run and hit his head against the granite kitchen counter, effectively stealing the kill for himself.

The nearest house was visible only as a silhouette in the distance, no lit windows to suggest anyone might be awake and feeling nosey. The night was young, the hunt having been cut short, and so Hannibal stashed the body in his car and returned to the house. He wiped his feet upon entering, the legs of his clear PVC coveralls crinkling as he did.

The door to the basement was locked. More promising still was the fact that the doorframe was the only one in the house to have neoprene sealing inside its frame. Hannibal had briefly considered it when soundproofing his own basement but had opted for a higher calibre alternative.

The key took some finding. It wasn’t hanging with the house key by the door, nor was it stashed in the victim’s bedside table or under his mattress. As the minutes passed, Hannibal felt his curiosity unfurling within. His life had recently become monotonous. The perpetual drone of privileged clients, peacocking dinner guests and easy kills. Even upon displaying the first tableau of a new sounder, Hannibal had found the FBI uninspiring in their attempts to apprehend him.

When he discovered the key hidden behind a row books that were suspiciously less dusty than those on other shelves, he made a pleased sound and let himself through the door; descending the stairs prepared to uncover some excruciatingly boring secret but hoping for something more.

He was pleased to find him, if more than a little surprised. A waif of pale, mottled skin and bone chained to the wall it was facing- yet sleeping silently on a thin mattress. The frail creature had slept through the noise above and had spent many, many nights doing so if the state of the tattered blanket or length of his hair was anything to go by.

Lit only by a cheap camping light in the far corner, the angular lines of his barley concealed skeleton proved aesthetically pleasing, Hannibal decided, like jagged quartz. He stood and watched the shallow rise and fall of breath, mesmerised by the quiet contrast of peace and suffering before him. Deciding to leave the resting creature for a while, he perused the steel drawers in the far corner. These contained pictures. Quite the collection of young men had found themselves in the mechanic’s basement. For each there existed two or three pictures documenting what could only be days of torment and then death.

For the current occupant however, with the tangled heap of hickory curls, there were easily more than a hundred; a year’s worth at least but likely more. On a whim, Hannibal unzipped his coveralls enough to slide the thick pile into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. The photography was poor, but the subject was alluring.

_What makes you special?_

He approached silently. The creature continued to sleep. This close, Hannibal could see the only chain was around one ankle, though the thick scars apparent on both wrists and the prisoner’s neck made it clear that this had not always been the case. Bruised ribs stood stark, like the black keys of a harpsichord. Hannibal crouched beside him in one swift motion and the creature flinched. Not asleep after all. He placed one hand on the prisoner’s naked hip and felt him tense. He made no move to escape the touch though, at least not until Hannibal reached for the ankle restraint.

That made the creature skittish, jolting away and leaning like a bag of bones against the wall. The prisoner kept his head down, face covered with a curtain of curls, and rapped his knuckles weakly against something taped to the wall. Hannibal retrieved the camping light at a leisurely pace, pleased that things had taken such an interesting turn. The sign – written on the greasy lid of a takeout pizza box- read;

1) Chain stays on  
2) No Permanent damage  
3) Don’t mark the face

Bile rose in Hannibal’s throat. He enjoyed suffering, basked in the pleasure of breaking people and shaping them in his image but this was a crude use for a captive; a filthy, repulsive outlet meant for the pleasure of pigs. Hannibal would kill the creature painlessly; it had done nothing to offend him and any further suffering would be pitiful and pointless.

‘I’m going to kill you now,’ he said quietly, though the words echoed eerily in the empty space and then hung there for a while, ‘would you like that?’

He had not planned to speak at all, even found himself wondering why he had yet to reach out and simply snap the creature’s neck like one would end a cat’s plaything or a bird that survived the impact of a glass door.

Blue eyes peered through sodden strands of hair. They were tired and distant but painfully sane. The creature took a moment to catalogue Hannibal’s face in a way that seemed hopeful and resigned in equal measures. Seconds stretched like minutes; the rain became heavy enough to hear through the boarded window.

‘Would _you_ like that?’ he replied.


	2. Chrysalism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chrysalism: the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension you understand perfectly.

The response was unexpected. Once the words were out of Hannibal’s mouth, he had assumed the captive would beg and whimper or resign himself to the end of his suffering. He had been ready to conclude this detour and return home, but the captive’s answering question gave him pause. There was no energy there, it wasn’t a retort nor was it an effort to appear strong or unaffected by the threat. The prisoner had simply searched for something behind Hannibal’s eyes and found it there. Hannibal smiled and allowed the predator inside to peel back a strip of his person suit and peer through; he suspected the captive had already caught a peek. The prisoner didn’t recoil, leant forward in fact, though Hannibal assumed it hadn’t been a conscious choice.

A moment passed; thunder grumbled in the distance. Hannibal was pleased to find he was reconsidering the mercy killing. The captive reached out for the worn blanket and pulled it up to his neck. Despite being dry, the basement was cold, and the captive had nothing in the way of natural insulation. His eyes darted to Hannibal’s hands as if he expected the thin sheet to be torn away from him. Hannibal remained silent, still crouching on the balls of his feet and yet somehow towering over the man in chains. His thoughts were frantic with excitement, but his face showed nothing, predator stowed away for now and person suit back intact.

Tired of the discussions that come with patients and dinner guests, Hannibal had often tried engaging his victims in conversation. Even rude and ignorant as they were, he had suspected that their impending demise would stir up some degree of interesting tête-à-tête. That it would perhaps cause them to reevaluate their trite perspectives. Mostly, they cried and cussed and messed themselves and Hannibal was forced to resign himself to the vapid gossip of the elite and the whining of underwhelming patients. It had been so long since someone with even an inch of potential had sat opposite him.

There was something special about a captive that survived where so many others had perished, though. Something uncanny about the way he turned Hannibal’s question around on him.

‘I killed your keeper,’ Hannibal said, tone conversational.

The captive let out a shuddering breath but otherwise said nothing.

‘You’ve come as a bit of a surprise,’ he continued, allowing a hint of his genuine pleasure to show.

The prisoner’s cracked lips parted, as if he had something to say, but then closed again. Hannibal wondered where he’d keep him. Most likely in the basement, though the thought of stowing him away in a spare room to see what shape he’d take as he healed did enter his mind.

“I’m afraid I can’t leave you here as a witness.”

He let himself enjoy the moment, like a cat swiping a particularly interesting mouse this way then that way to get a proper look at it. The captive shook his head slowly, eyes down, but it was in agreement. The windows moaned under the weight of the wind. The conversations they could have now that the prisoner had had all notion of normality and morality torn away from them. The digging that Hannibal could do, the shaping and breaking and reshaping…

Hannibal stood and placed the camping light on top of the steel drawers. Beneath the scattered collection of macabre polaroid pictures, he had spied a small key. Slipping it into his pocket he turned and winked at the captive who responded with a harrowed look but didn’t cry or cuss _or_ mess himself.

‘One moment, please,’ Hannibal said politely, and ascended the stairs to the ground floor.

As he stepped out into the darkness a peal of lightning cracked the sky and lit the way to his car. Dropping his head back, he allowed the rain to land on his closed eyes and then fall from his face before he ducked into his car to retrieve the sedative he kept primed in the glove compartment. Normally, when he wanted someone alive, he would confine them to the trunk, but that space was currently occupied. The back seat would do, so long as the captive was unconscious and unable to cause trouble. Hannibal was well practiced in avoiding the wrong type of attention; his car was serviced regularly, and he abided by the speed limit. At this hour, no one would have cause to peer through his car window and see something they’d regret.

When he returned with the syringe in hand the prisoner went visibly stiff.

‘Is that it?’ He asked in a quiet voice.

‘Yes,’ Hannibal lied.

He crouched again, in his previous position, and took a leisurely look at the captive. He was blinking rapidly, eyes darting, before settling back on the syringe as though coming to terms with his lot. Despite the dirt and the unkemptness, there wasn’t a single unpleasant part of him. The pizza box behind him might as well have been a neon sign though, with the way it burned itself, uninvited, onto the walls of Hannibal’s memory palace.

“It won’t be painful,” he said. 

The captive met his eyes again and seemed to believe him. Nodding once, an action that appeared to be a move to bolster his confidence, the chained man held out his arm.

The thunder roared now, right at the door, and Hannibal’s lips parted as the needle pierced pale skin.

“It won’t be painful,” he whispered, but this time it went unheard as the captive slipped under and fell sideways onto the sordid mattress.

When he scooped him up, he let the blanket fall to the floor. It was riddled with holes and stains and he wanted it nowhere near his car. The man was light and, not for the first time, Hannibal wondered if he’d live long enough to provide the challenge and entertainment he was hoping for. Watching the rain pool in the prisoner’s clavicles as he carried him to the car, he found he was a bit sceptical. 

Illuminated by the dash light, the extent of the man’s injuries became more obvious. A broken rib for certain, a spattering of cigarette burns – some faded white and others red and raw – marring his inner thighs and chest, and substantial bruising on almost every stretch of skin. His face had been shaved, but poorly and with multiple nicks, and his hair had grown down to his shoulders in a mess of matts and tangles. The scars on his wrists and neck had healed but his ankle was raw, and Hannibal could smell infection even through the downpour. He took inventory of all of this before draping his coat over the naked body and pulling away at a sensible speed.

The thunder continued to grumble like discontented hounds and the rain rapped pleasantly against the roof of the car. Warm in his heated seat, and invigorated by Stravinsky’s _Ritual of Abduction_ , Hannibal found his eyes wandering to the man in the rear-view mirror and felt quite content with the quiet company.

It would be simple enough to secure him when he reached home. The dose he had administered was measured with a stronger theoretical opponent in mind. The fragile, fractured little man laid out across the backseat would likely sleep much longer than intended but, other than some nausea, should be perfectly fine. As the lights turned red and the car slowed, Hannibal heard the prisoner make a small, pained sound and turned to appreciate him fully. Perhaps, under all of those deep bruises and that sallow complexion, the captive would turn out to be beautiful. Perhaps, much like a conservator, Hannibal could restore him. The traffic light turned green and Hannibal smiled as he pulled away. No, he would do much more than that.

He dealt with the body first. The car was secure in the garage and the sleeping man was going nowhere soon. Besides, the prisoner was interesting, but there was no reason to let good meat go to waste. When he was finished with the mechanic, Hannibal carried the sleeping man down to the basement. He was certain that the prisoner was more than used to captivity at this point and would not be as difficult to contain as most people, but a solid, sound-proofed cell would still be the most sensible solution, at least until Hannibal knew more about him.

With the captive in his arms, Hannibal slipped past his meat freezer and brushed the hanging tarps out of his way with his shoulder. At the far, far end of the basement – well past the array of shining steel cleavers and bone saws – was an empty space dedicated to these sorts of spur of the moment decisions. This captive was not the first to spend time here, and so a metal bedframe with a clean mattress was already sturdily installed in one corner. There was a thick chain on the wall, but Hannibal opted for the soft leather medical restraints instead. The prisoner was more secure this way; all four limbs strapped firmly in place with an additional, thicker strap across the torso. He could do what needed to be done now, without worrying that his captive would tear out the IV or use a spare hand to break the thumb on the other and slip free.

Captive safely fastened, Hannibal administered fluids for dehydration and antibiotics for the infection. He cleaned and dressed the deep ankle wound and the fresh burns and hummed to himself as he did. He showered and dressed and, taking a chair with him, descended the steps to his basement with the photos in his free hand.

Sitting at prisoner’s bedside, Hannibal studied the photos. He was sleeping in some of them, being hurt in others. In the ones that looked most recent, the captive kept his eyes on floor – the embodiment of defeat and submission - but as the pictures got older, Hannibal noticed defiance behind blue eyes. A pity it had been beaten out of him. In the bottom corner of one picture, Hannibal assumed the first, the mechanic had scribbled a name.

“Will?” He asked, just as the man began to stir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, for all of the kudos and kind comments on the first chapter :)


	3. Adronitis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adronitis : frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone—spending the first few weeks chatting in their psychological entryway, with each subsequent conversation like entering a different anteroom.  
> ~The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

Will woke in a room much brighter than the basement. He closed his eyes again instantly, not just because the white light burnt his retinas, but because if he had been taken up into the main house, he knew something special had been planned and he wanted to delay it for as long as he could. They hadn’t started already and so Will knew they wanted him awake. Lying corpse-still and trying to look relaxed, Will realised something was different. His surroundings didn’t smell like sweat and stale cigarette smoke. He tried to inhale deeply but inconspicuously and failed to detect anything.

He took stock of his body while he lay there. His heart was pounding, panic coursing, so nothing new there. The ankle was as sore as ever, throbbing and feeling as though it was still restrained. He couldn’t move it to be sure, didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he was scared by this new game. They never bothered to restrain him when he was upstairs; too many eyes, too outnumbered to try anything. Dread settled over him like fresh earth when he realised every other part of his body was equally ensnared. He lay there and listened. There was a mechanic hum somewhere to his left and the almost imperceptible buzz of the lights above. Other than that, the quiet was so all-encompassing that he could hear his own quickening pulse – could feel it, even, in the crook of one arm.

He held back the sound of raw desperation that was building in his throat. He had made peace with dying a long time ago, but by that point his efforts to persuade his captor to spare him, to cast himself as the paragon among dozens of unsatisfactory victims, had had its effect. Not the _desired_ effect, Will thought hopelessly. When his keeper realised that Will could see him, understand him, he only doubled his efforts to keep him close and confined. The opportunity Will had been hoping for never came to pass. The monster was meticulous when it came to keeping him bound or too broken to get far. After time, he even found friends equally willing to watch Will, for a small fee. They were only around briefly and infrequently and didn’t want to talk. They didn’t care whether or not Will could understand them and so there wasn’t much he could do to protect himself when they came knocking.

Another sound pulled Will from his spiralling thoughts; a small crinkle, like someone turning the page of a book. The sound was so close to his head that Will couldn’t stop his breath from hitching. He got it under control quickly, hoping that the slip up hadn’t been taken for him stirring from sleep.

“Will?” An unfamiliar voice asked, laced with a strong Baltic accent.

Will felt his pulse stutter. Recognition trickled in like hot molasses.

 _‘Is that it?’,_ he had asked. And the predator descending the stairs had said yes, and he’d been stupid enough to believe him. _God_ , he thought pitifully, _he’d even offered his own arm out_. He’d been so ready. A sob tore its way free then, eyes still closed. Just one dry, desperate sound.

“I imagine you’re quite confused, probably a little nauseous,” the voice said calmly. It was _close_. Will flinched. “If I dim the lights, will you open your eyes?”

Will swallowed. Nodded. He’d been in this position before; new and interesting. He just had to find out what this new keeper wanted and then embody that in every possible way.

The lights dimmed. Will opened his eyes. On a chair beside him, sat that thick pile of photographs that he was so familiar with. _Great,_ Will thought bitterly, _he already knows what I can do._ His new captor re-emerged then, from behind a plastic tarp and Will began to suspect he _would_ die after all, just far more slowly and painfully than he had hoped. He let his eyes settle on the man’s chin, didn’t want to stare into amber eyes and see what he had seen before.

“So, it is Will then?” The man asked, placing the photos on the floor and reclaiming his seat. He crossed one leg over the other, leant forward and smiled.

Will shuddered and nodded again. He looked away from that smile and his eyes landed on the IV.

“Just fluids and antibiotics, I can assure you.” The man supplied before Will could ask. Not that he would have asked. “I imagine you don’t believe me. Trust comes with time.”

So, they’d have _time_. Will focussed on his breathing and forced himself to look back at the man’s chin. He knew he should appear attentive.

“I believe you,” he lied, meekly. His voice cracked, lips splitting painfully in the corners after having sealed themselves shut while he slept. The thirst was often more painful than anything they did to him.

“No, you don’t,” The man replied, sounded unsettlingly playful. He stood and disappeared behind the tarp again and Will began to shake. He knew, from the first time around, that there was always more pain at the start. He learned quickly enough to live, but not enough to avoid having nearly every part of his body battered beyond recognition.

When he reappeared, the man held a glass of water with a metal straw.

“Drink,” he leant forward until the straw brushed Will’s lips.

Will parted them cautiously and forced himself to take slow sips. The first time he had truly been dehydrated, his keeper had left and, without warning, had not come back for almost a week. On the second day, Will had tugged uselessly against his restraints; over and over until he was bleeding so heavily that he thought he might be able to slip right out them if he kept going. On day three, he assumed his keeper had died and nobody would come to the property until long after Will had joined him. On day four, as he curled on his mattress wracked with the pain of thirst and hunger, one of his keeper’s friends had showed up with a jerry can of water. He dumped it next to the mattress, muttering something about Vegas, and left Will to gorge himself on it. He’d vomited shortly after and had convulsed so painfully that he never made the same mistake again, regardless of how long he was forced to go without. Now, Will allowed himself to drink just half of the glass before resting his head back against the mattress.

“Thank you,” He said, carefully. His throat felt better than it had in days.

The man inclined his head and sat again, staring at Will for a while with that curious smile.

If Will was going to survive this, he would need the man to talk, he’d need to learn as much as possible. On the other hand, he’d been hurt before for speaking out of turn and he really wasn’t sure how this new monster would react or what unspoken rules he had already put in place. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Will turned his head to meet the man’s eyes. Will had always had a talent for reading people, long before it saved his life, but this man was different. His eyes gave nothing away and the rest of his face played whichever part he wanted it to portray.

“Will you tell me your name?” He asked, hands fisting nervously at his sides.

“Hannibal Lecter,” his keeper replied amiably, “I’d shake your hand if circumstances were different.”

 _Manners._ Will made a mental note. Of course, Will had planned to be polite, he was in no position to do otherwise but -unlike his previous captor – this man seemed to want to be well mannered in return, at least on the surface. It was disconcerting, he already held all of the power.

“Mr Lecter…” He began, in an effort to _politely_ gain information, but was interrupted.

“ _Hannibal_ , if you’d please.”

 _Familiarity._ Will added the word to his mental checklist. The man that currently had him restrained, naked in a tiled room surrounded by hanging tarps wanted things to be _relaxed_ between them. Will might have some difficulty with that one; he could feel his body trembling despite the calm façade he was aiming for.

“Hannibal,” he corrected, “Please could you tell me why I’m here?”

Hannibal stood and tapped the IV bag with a feigned expression that suggested it was obvious.

“You’re here for a speedy convalescence, Will.” He ran his fingers along Will’s torso, each rib protruded as if he were a guiro carved from white wood. Will hissed. “I suspect you have a broken rib as well as an infection.”

Evasive, but not outright untruthful. He liked to play games.

Manners. Familiarity. Games. It was a good start.

Will perused the man’s suit; expensive and eccentric. This monster was a different breed to the previous one, but Will suspected his intent would boil down to the same base pleasures regardless. Noticing Will scrutinising his attire, Hannibal spoke again.

“I would like to provide you with clothing, Will. First, I need your word that, if I untie you, you will not remove your IV or bandages and will do as instructed.”

Will looked at the crook of his arm warily but nodded.

“Your word, Will.”

“I promise,” he whispered, hating to debase himself but aware he could do nothing but submit.

With deft and practiced hands, Hannibal slid the leather restraints free and stepped back as Will pulled himself upright, wincing. He pressed his bare back to the cold tile behind him and pulled his knees up to his chest. At this angle, he was much more able to see his injured ankle. It had been bandaged properly, probably cleaned as well. He was reluctant to view his new prison as an upgrade; this could all be a game after all. Maybe Hannibal only wanted to heal him so he could leave his own marks. Perhaps all he wanted was a blank canvas, or the nearest he could achieve by treating Will’s various wounds. He was riddled with scars but most of them were from the early stages of captivity; when he was still learning. They’d faded to white or pale pink and only a few cuts had been deep enough to leave jagged, raised scars. He’d either take them to the grave or escape and have to go on living; always decorated by his wretched past.

Hannibal watched for a few moments, as if testing whether Will would keep his word. When satisfied, he told Will to stay seated and retreated past the tarp. He moved silently; Will didn’t hear him ascending but then suddenly a lock clicked into place somewhere above ground. It was tempting to sink into darkness, allow his sorrow to swallow him so that he was too far from the surface to be hurt any further. A tiny part of him though, a part he thought long gone, was feeling the first stirrings of hope. Another prison, another keeper, another chance to escape. He closed his eyes and silently repeated his checklist like a mantra.

_Manners. Familiarity. Games._


	4. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aurora: Originally the name of the Roman goddess of sunrise, the word aurora is now used to describe the dawn.

The sun was rising when Hannibal reached his bedroom, casting a blood orange mirage across the sky. He stood, a stark silhouette against the soft colours of morning, and welcomed this new chapter of his life.

He selected a set of azure, satin loungewear that was sure to swallow the slip of a man in his basement and laid them out on the bed while he set the bath running. Dirt clung to Will like a film; months had clearly gone past without any opportunity to wash. Sprinkling Epsom salt and fresh lavender into the tub, Hannibal noted – only a little conceitedly - that Will was rather lucky to have fallen into the hands of someone who took such good care of their things.

Tub full, and just a little too hot for now, Hannibal drew the bedroom curtains. While the most feline part of him itched to know how Will would react if confronted by vivid light and the glimpse of freedom after so long in the dark, the restraint that he had cultivated over the years tipped him in favour of easing Will into his new existence. Besides, if he gave his captive everything at once, he’d have nothing left with which to foster dependency. 

Will was sitting where he had left him, foetal and afraid. Hannibal had half expected him to lunge from behind a tarp with one of the many weapons proudly displayed only ten metres away from his cold, tiled corner. A part of him had even hoped for it; anticipation buzzing like static in his bones. It appeared he had done as asked, however. The bandage was untouched, the IV intact. On the floor beside the chair sat the pile of photos as well as the glass of water Will had yet to finish. Hannibal approached him and held his elbow firmly.

“This will take another hour,” Hannibal told him, tapping the crook of Will’s arm. He ran his thumb over the paper-thin skin there, feeling the point at which it split to give way to the needle.

Will tracked his fingers, tense but unflinching. He nodded his head to show he was listening but remained silent.

“I’d like you to wash before dressing,” Hannibal said, choosing to ignore Will’s alarmed expression. “We can wait here, or I can unhook your IV bag and bring it with us. Which would you prefer?”

Will schooled his expression into something more relaxed, if a little more despondent than Hannibal would have liked. He inhaled through his mouth, as if about to speak and then looked up, perhaps in an attempt to assess Hannibal’s intentions.

Hannibal surmised that Will was not much used to being given choices. He had wanted that to be the case. He let his captive run his pretty blue eyes over him, enjoying being on display. Will seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and finally gathered the courage to speak.

“Is there a right and wrong answer?” He asked, and then ducked his head as if regretting it.

“Not at all,” Hannibal assured him, “when I would like you to do something specific, I will brook no argument. If I give you options, the choice is yours.”

Will licked his dry lips and didn’t deflate so much as sag his shoulders in relief.

“That’s fair,” he said, and Hannibal bristled. Will was playing his game, but he was clearly letting him win. He was reducing himself, projecting the visage of a meek shell of a man. It wouldn’t do.

Stepping forward in one fluid motion, fast enough to startle Will and cause the IV stand to rattle across the floor, Hannibal closed the distance between them. He gripped Will’s chin hard and forced his head up until their noses were nearly touching. That close, he could feel the smaller man’s breath leaving him in short, frantic bursts.

“It is not _fair_ , but fairness doesn’t concern me.” He maintained a level tone of voice but allowed his stare to turn ice-cold and sincere.

Will’s eyes were wide but searching, always searching. Hannibal felt that he could almost look through their cobalt veil and see neurons firing like gunshots. He wanted to bask in that consideration for eternity; spend the rest of his existence being seen. Will’s brow furrowed and Hannibal noted the moment a sort of resolve seemed to settle over him; tired blue eyes blinking once, deliberately, and bruised face becoming lax.

“I’d like to wash now, please,” Will said, forcing his jaw to move despite Hannibal’s bruising grip.

Before releasing him, Hannibal allowed his thumb to trace a line across his captive’s jaw, relishing the way that Will’s bottom lip trembled at the touch. He stepped back and loosened his tie – Will still tracking every movement – then looped it gracefully over Will’s head quickly rendering him blind.

ꭥ

Will felt his stomach lurch the second his captor began to undress, too sore and tired and disorientated to prepare himself for what would inevitably follow. Only, it didn’t. Once Hannibal’s tie was free, he paused to use it as a blindfold, and then immediately helped Will to his feet. Will still expected an act of violence to follow, perhaps a blow to the face or a punch to the broken rib just for good measure. The tile was cold enough to make his toes curl, but it was smooth and sterile in comparison to the dust and gritted cement he was accustomed to. A tendril of panic wormed its way around his lungs, and then constricted, as he pictured his dirty footprints sullying the pristine surface and the price he would have to pay. He wrapped his arms around himself and winced at the responding ache in his ribs. Will had become habituated to a state of helplessness, perhaps even before he was taken, but he was even more vulnerable like this; a blow could come from any angle unanticipated. Worse though, was the fact that he had essentially been robbed of his ability to comb through his captor’s body language and micro-expressions and predict his next move. He began to suspect he had been too overt with his eye contact and this was his punishment. It was a case of bitter irony, considering the lengths he had gone to avoid eye contact before he was taken. Light clawed at the edges of his vision, but he was otherwise blind. A rattle sounded beside him and then his captor was pressing the edge of the IV bag into Will’s hand.

“Keep that up high,” he commanded, and Will obeyed as a large hand rested against the small of his back and began guiding him forward. It was neither violent nor considerate of his injuries; just a firm pressure forcing him to shuffle in the direction his captor wanted him. 

Will recoiled when he came into contact with the tarp, but it was swiftly brushed aside. As they continued, the mechanic hum grew louder and Will began to suspect he was sharing a space with a generator or large appliance. He turned towards the sound, as if that would help him identify the source, but Hannibal tutted and increased the pressure at his back so that they were moving more quickly; Will nearly stumbling over his own feet. Several seconds later, the hand at his back was swapped for an arm across his chest.

Assuming they had reached their destination, Will tried to prepare himself for what might follow. _Washing_ had taken many forms in his life; a bucket of lukewarm water and a rough sponge when he’d been pleasing or a cold hose torturing his wounds as he stood shaking over a rusted, metal grate when he’d not. During these times he’d often thought back to his own shower, with its weak pressure and inconsistent temperature, and tried to remember how it had felt to use soap. The smell of it, the weight in his hand.

“There’s a staircase now, I’m going to carry you.” The voice behind him said.

Will slunk away ever so slightly.

“No, I can…” He began, but then realised this wasn’t one of the ‘choices’ Hannibal had referred to. He swallowed and tensed. “…okay.”

Nothing happened for a moment and Will imagined his captor scanning his hunched posture and the trembling arm that held his IV out like an offering. For his previous keeper, it would have been a pleasing sight but the few indicators he had managed to scrounge from Hannibal’s actions suggested that, for him, it was anything but. He would make himself pleasing if he could, but the only compliments he had ever received – which weren’t lude or vicious remarks about his body – were comments on his eyes. They could hardly help him now.

After a moment that stretched on until the anticipation became unbearable, Will was hoisted off of his feet without so much as a grunt from his captor. He had expected to be slung over a shoulder and so was shocked to find himself cradled like a bride ready to cross the threshold. He righted his IV bag and folded his other arm awkwardly against himself as he was carried with ease up and into what he assumed was the main house.

ꭥ

The water was perfect when they reached the bathroom, but Hannibal deposited his captive into the shower first and - leaving the tie tied tight across his eyes, just to see how Will would react – set the water to tepid and positioned him under the head. Will flinched at first, he did that often, but then he regained his composure and stood where Hannibal had left him, letting the water run off of him as the brown swirl at the plug slowly became clear. His lips parted, an oddly relaxed gesture for someone in his current position, and it struck Hannibal that this was perhaps a pleasant experience for Will, all things considered. He watched him longer than he needed to; Will tentatively lifting his head to the flow so that his face could benefit as much as his body.

The tie was sodden by the time Hannibal guided him out onto the soft mat beside the stall. He lifted his hand to remove it but paused, surprised, when Will spoke in that broken, dulcet little voice of his.

“Thank you for that,” he said, with all the sincerity of someone thanking a doctor for saving their life.

Hannibal smiled, he seemed to be doing that as often as Will flinched. He liked gratitude when it was sincere. It empowered him when those thanking him had something to lose and stroked his ego when they didn’t.

“You’re welcome, Will. You understand, the bath would not be nearly as pleasant if you hadn’t rinsed off first.”

It was fun to watch his captive’s brow furrow under the thick, red fabric, trying to make sense of the things Hannibal was saying. It pleased Hannibal to discover that he was as singular as a captor as he was in every other venture he undertook. He removed Will’s blindfold then and guided him into the bath as the doe-eyed man blinked rapidly against the bright lights. Once submerged up to his chest, it looked as though he might cry and Hannibal sat on the edge of the bath and did nothing for a while, to see if he would. He imagined the physical relief alone, brought on by the soothing heat of the water, was enough to reduce a man as mistreated as Will to tears. Eventually, his captive composed himself enough to keep the tears at bay and Hannibal took the IV bag from his bony hand and hung it on the same hook as his robe. Will had his knees up to his chest again but when Hannibal told him to lie back, he forced himself to do so.

“You’re magnificently brave, Will.” Hannibal told him, as he reached for the shampoo and began lathering Will’s curls. “Warring against your instincts when so many others would run or fight, despite its futility.”

Will said nothing and so Hannibal continued; “Like a rabbit laying prone in a snare as the fox closes in.”

He placed a hand on each of Will’s shoulders and pushed until he was submerged to his hairline. Will was stiff and clearly, unfortunately, enjoying this far less than his shower. When the shampoo was rinsed out and Hannibal had raised him up and started to apply conditioner, Will answered.

“Like a rabbit playing dead and hoping the fox will want to find something fresher.”

He had flicked his eyes nervously between Hannibal’s eyes and hands as he spoke, had mumbled the words gracelessly, but he was _playing_ just as Hannibal had hoped. Hannibal would be sure to reward him with pain killers when he returned him to the basement.

“Is that what you’re hoping, Will? That I’ll find someone newer, shinier?” As he spoke, he worked the conditioner over matted hair in long, languid strokes.

“No,” Will breathed, “then what would become of the rabbit in the snare?”

“What, indeed,” Hannibal agreed, an opaque sort of promise that started Will trembling afresh, despite the steam rising from the surface of the water.

The domesticity filled Hannibal with a sense of contentment he had rarely been privy to. Once his prize was secured again, and Hannibal had stolen a few hours rest, he planned to draw this moment from an outsider’s perspective. Etch its beauty in sharp granite or perhaps immortalize it in the same soft watercolours that filled the sky beyond his curtains. He had finally found the thing he had been looking for, among all those many victims that he had silently begged to be interesting.

“Perhaps I’m the hunter, more than satisfied with his catch,” He mused.

When Will replied, his voice was raw and melancholic.

“You killed the fox to get to it. I suppose you deserve to be.”


	5. Panacea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panacea: all-healing in Greek and, fittingly, Panacea was the Greek goddess of healing. 

When Hannibal had returned Will to the basement – blindfolded again – he had re-dressed his ankle, injected something into his IV line and thanked him for his candour. It made him numb and more than a little fixated on the pyjamas he was now wearing.

Blue satin. Close to the colour of his eyes. Hannibal had blindfolded him. He realised, as he stroked his thumb up and over the smooth, shining surface of his knee, that it had been because he didn’t want Will to see his home and not because he didn’t like his eyes or their frequent, if tentative, contact with his own. Only, Will corrected silently, he had realised that as soon as he’d been taken upstairs, not just this minute. His brain felt sluggish, but the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. Thoughts were fading before he’d had a chance to finish thinking them. He realised with vague surprise that he was mummering a rather tuneless rendition of 59th Street Bridge Song _‘I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep’_. The bright white of the basement was comfortably muted, all the sharp edges turned soft. It was a very good thing to lose his mind for a while. When he moved his leg, the fabric caught the light. He tilted his head, shifted his leg and watched the glint bounce off at a different angle. It was disembodying, thinking and feeling nothing of import. _Import._ What a pretentious way to word that sentence. The man upstairs spoke like that. Will was likely to mirror his speech patterns without meaning to after time. Maybe the pyjamas were imported. They felt expensive. He scrunched his toes up in the excess fabric and then uncurled them. And then he scrunched them and uncurled them and scrunched them and uncurled them again. Blue satin. Who would have thought Will would be wearing blue satin? A sob came out unbidden. Will huffed a laugh. Men didn’t cry over blue satin pyjamas. They were rather nice though, the colour of the curve where the ocean meets the sky. Will missed the ocean, tried to remember the last time he had seen it. Or the sky for that matter. Another sob. A tear landed on his thigh, turned azure to admiral. Will snorted. He hadn’t been aware he’d known so many shades of blue. He chuckled sardonically, looking down at the single ankle cuff Hannibal had fastened to ‘keep his rabbit snared’. Was that a real conversation they had had? Blue satin, accented with distressed leather and accessorised with a tiny, silver padlock. Terribly extravagant. 

When his chest started to heave, it was hard to tell if he was laughing or crying. Perhaps both. Perhaps mostly crying. The last time he had worn clothes was on the day he was taken. Will tried to think back. Surely, he thought, the last outfit he ever got to wear should be something that stuck with him. Then, he reasoned, it wasn’t really the last after all. He’d hated it at first, being naked. He’d clung to his clothes like they were thick enough to protect him from the beatings. Had begged for them back the second they were gone. At first, the humiliation had hurt the worst, then he realised the vulnerability was far more difficult to bear. Eventually he had learned that there were far worse things to experience than nudity. The only remnant of all those negative feelings was the self-loathing that hit him whenever he caught a glimpse of the marks that had been carved into him. The marks he’d _allowed_ them to carve into him. He thought about the very likely scenario in which this new captor might demand the clothing back. Will wiped his tears with a sleeve and then allowed the soft fabric to brush against his lips. He’d give the pyjamas back, without hesitation. At some point the numbness became heaviness and Will began to drift in and out of sleep. He woke twice to the empty chair beside his bed and then, when he woke a third time, Hannibal was reading silently at his bedside.

“Good morning,” Will forced himself to croak, “…I think”. 

Hannibal’s answering smile seemed fond and Will struggled to find anything behind his eyes to dispute that. Perhaps his brain was still lazing.

“I hope you’re hungry, Will.” He said, standing to unlock the ankle cuff.

There was not a single instance in recent history that Will could remember not feeling the pangs of hunger like a festering hole in his gut. He pulled himself upright and sat at the centre of the bed, eager for whatever scraps he would be offered. He’d survived mostly on leftovers before Hannibal found him though there had been a time that he was desperate enough to eat a tin of dog food offered to him in spite. 

“I shudder to think what you’ve been eating all this time,” Hannibal scolded, as though Will had had any choice in the matter. “You are severely malnourished, Will.”

It was at this moment that Will noticed a thermos beneath the chair. Mind still hazy from the drugs, it took a while to realise his eyes had been locked onto it for far too long.

“A silkie chicken broth,” Hannibal supplied, bending to retrieve it before reclaiming his seat. “When did you last eat?”

It didn’t seem as though he was reprimanding him this time.

“I…I think it was yesterday, maybe the day before. I had some crackers.”

Hannibal unscrewed the lid as he listened, pouring out a small serving. Steam rose in tendrils that dissipated against the translucent tarp behind.

“We’ll have to go slowly, I’m afraid.” He extended the steaming cup out to Will who stared, the scent alone causing a stupor of sorts. “Take it,” Hannibal added when Will made no move to do so.

It was the most exalted example of soup Will had tasted. After the first sip he let the cup hover beneath his face, warming him and enveloping him in its aroma. He was dressed and fed, _medicated_ even, but there was no denying that sat across from him was a creature more monster than man. The fact that his intentions and inclinations were so difficult to predict made him all the more frightening.

“Why?” He sighed, quickly taking another mouthful lest Hannibal take his curiosity for ingratitude and revoke his right to food.

“If you eat too much too quickly, it could be quite dangerous,” He responded, and though his face remained the same, his tone was deliberately aloof which made it clear to Will he knew what he was _really_ asking but wanted more from him. A conversation, not a jilted back and forth. Familiarity.

“Hannibal,” Will began, and it felt dangerous to utter the name aloud despite being asked to use it, ‘are you still planning to kill me?”

“I’ve not planned much beyond the next few days. I suppose, to some extent, you could say the future is in your hands.”

Will looked down at said hands dazedly. The soup looked back at him; half a bay leaf spiralling hypnotically. If this were the future, then it was measurably better than the past. He took another grateful sip and then rested his head back against the wall.

“Thank you for the soup,” he said, belatedly.

As if reminded, Hannibal answered by pouring out his own serving and holding it up in a mock toast. They sipped quietly for a while and though Will was as tense as Hannibal was content, he was too engrossed in the taste and smell and warmth to fret too much about what might come next. What _did_ come next, was a sudden strain on his bladder. He shifted uncomfortably and scanned his surroundings for a non-existent bucket or grate, cursing himself for not attempting to go covertly in the shower. 

“I would like to know more about you, Will.” Hannibal drew another long, leisurely sip between thin lips, eyeing Will placidly over the rim of his cup. “I also appreciate that you would like to know more about me. Do you have questions?”

Yes. _Where am I? Why am I here? What day is it? When will you start hurting me? How will you kill me? What’s behind the tarp? Why did you kill him? Psycho or sociopath? Where am I supposed to piss?_ But Will knew these questions were far from the correct response. Hannibal appeared to diverge from the other men that had kept Will as a plaything, but he had still taken another human being to rule and restrain. He recognised in Hannibal the same desire to be understood, though on this occasion he felt more like a distraction than a desideratum. Wanted – for now – but not needed. He should choose his question carefully.

“What made you choose to kill him?” He settled on, after a moment. There was no need to clarify; they both knew of whom he spoke.

“You are aware he owned a garage?” Hannibal asked and Will swallowed and nodded, familiar with the impact of a torque wrench against bone. “Yes, you are,” Hannibal mused, as if intruding on Will’s memories. “Well, he was an impudent pig with very poor customer service.”

That came as a surprise. Will agreed of course, that the man had been a vicious and vile individual, but up until he had taken Will he had appeared polite, charismatic even. Something must have shown on his face because Hannibal tilted his head.

“You disagree?”

Will considered him carefully, for as long as he thought was safe, and saw nothing beyond what might appear to an outsider as polite interest in his opinion. He was homogenous with granite sculptures and steel automatons and other hard and dispassionate things; a fragmented facsimile of a human being. But robots and statues were safe and still while Hannibal was capable of breaking from his cast at any moment.

“I don’t disagree, I happened to find him quite unpleasant myself,” Will said, surprised to hear the vitriol wrapped around each word. He had assumed his words would sputter out of him, tentative or at least guarded; he did not expect to broadcast his rancour so openly. “He was different, before. Kind, charming,” he felt his upper lip curl on the last word, “I’d assumed he’d still be wearing the same disguise.”

“I saw no such disguise,” Hannibal replied, “I’m afraid you must have rather peeled it back.” There was a short pause, “Or perhaps I’m just not his type.”

It was an unkind thing to find humour in, and Will felt a spike of anger aimed in the other man’s direction. It didn’t surprise him, of course, but what _did_ – when he felt brave enough to look up - was the fact that Hannibal did not appear to be finding mirth in the situation at all, but rather pondering possibilities. He returned from his thoughts and, finding Will staring, smiled.

“It’s your turn, Will,” He purred, “Go on, unpeel me.”

The comment -and accompanying smile - had been disconcerting, and he still urgently needed to piss, so it took Will a moment to compose himself and conjure up something suitable. In the silence between speech, Hannibal seemed perfectly patient; reclined in his chair only enough to give off a vibe of a dignified sort of relaxation.

“How did you do it?” Will asked, really _truly_ wanting to know.

“I scared him to death.” He stated simply.

“I wha-?”

“It’s my turn, Will.” Hannibal cut him off, sounding like a long-suffering parent. “Please respect the rules.”

Will acquiesced, curiosity not even slightly sated. He imagined Hannibal in the doorway of the shack, sharp angles shaded like chasms and his shadow stretching out behind him, unending but rather becoming one with the night. He supposed, person suit removed, that Hannibal could be frightening enough to send a man into cardiac arrest. 

“How would _you_ have done it?” Hannibal asked.

Will’s lips spread into a grim smile; or at least the closest thing he knew to one. There had been nights when nothing but the thought of killing his captor had kept him from biting, deep, into his own wrists. He would lay down, often in freshly afflicted pain, and sink into the reverie of righteous ripping and rending.

“It’s vulgar,” Will said, shaking his head. This captor preferred his prisoners polite and gracious.

“I believe a little vulgarity is permitted, in this instance.” Hannibal allowed, giving Will no way to retreat from the topic.

“I’d take his genitals,” he forced himself to say, words rushing out so quickly that he was sure at first Hannibal hadn’t heard him correctly. His captor’s face was still placid, seemingly unaffected.

“You’d emasculate him?” Hannibal replied, but it was a prompt to continue rather than shock or outrage. Will wasn’t sure why he had expected anything else. Hannibal scanned Will’s face and then added; ‘You’d alter yourself in the image of Cronus.”

“I’d make him emasculate himself,” Will corrected weakly, wringing his hands together and shuddering with a pervasion of excitement rather than disgust. “Wasn’t Cronus known for eating his children?” He added, processing his keeper’s words in delay now that the image of forcing a man to hack between his own legs had pervaded his mind.

“He was also known for the odd castration.” Hannibal said, with the almost imperceptible shrug of one shoulder. “What then, Will?”

The timbre of his voice had changed. The difference was miniscule, not worth noting if it had been from anyone else, but Will had been grasping desperately at each micro-expression that slipped through. Hannibal’s tone had taken on a huskiness that had not been present before. The animal in Will reacted on instinct, detecting something dangerous and willing him to run. There was nowhere to go and so he tried to escape the conversation instead.

“I don’t know,” he lied. Then, when Hannibal just looked at him expectantly, he added “I was wondering if I could maybe use the bathroom? Please?”

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal replied. His eyes flashed with a predatory quality. “As soon as you finish what you were saying.”

Will swallowed against the dry lump in his throat which merely bobbed and relodged itself, making it nearly impossible to speak. He steeled himself and jerked his head in a stunted nod. He was avoiding the truth because he was terrified of encouraging whatever was creeping out from his keeper’s tar-black core, but he was aware that withholding the truth could have far worse consequences. 

“Once it was…off,” he managed, inhaling in the sharp, gasping manner of a man drowning, “I’d force it down his throat.”

Now Hannibal was leaning forward and Will was pressing his back harder against the tile in response.

“It would be an experiment, he really loved experimenting. Would he choke or bleed to death first? I’d stand and watch. I’d take photographs and show them to him as he was dying.”

“And of all the times you delved into this fantasy Will, what was the most common outcome?”

“Choking. He’d panic and choke.”

“An incredibly undignified end for a man more than deserving of it.” Hannibal sighed, and his face became calm again as he placed their cups on the floor and loosened his tie once more.

Will was shaking. The cause of the tremor was impossible to identify. Fear? Humiliation? Longing? A really, really full bladder? In truth, it was much better to hear his plan aloud than it had been to think it alone at night, despite the futility of it, now that he was already gone.

“How did he really die?” Will begged, as he stood and allowed Hannibal to blind him once more.

They walked in silence, and Will assumed Hannibal was sticking with his original story. When they stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his keeper’s hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“He fell and it his head, Will,” Hannibal said, far too gently, “I much preferred your rendition.”

And then he ascended the steps with Will in his arms.


	6. White Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White Torture - a type of psychological torture that includes extreme sensory deprivation and isolation. It involves putting the prisoner in "a completely white, soundproof room.

Hannibal spent the rest of the week cultivating a routine. He’d wake Will and grant him use of the bathroom, before returning him to his corner with two bottles of water and a helping of whatever he himself had had for breakfast. He imagined that Will found the hours alone quite tedious, with nothing but the drone of the meat freezer to keep him company, and enjoyed the fact that his captive was left anticipating his return from work. After the banal regularity his patients provided, it was a pleasant change of pace to spend his evenings discussing the taboo. He’d allow Will to use the bathroom again when he returned and would then set him safely away until dinner was prepared and they could share it across from one another in the peaceful privacy of the basement. Much later, after Hannibal had washed and dressed for bed, he would help Will to do the same and then leave him with another bottle of water for the night.

Initially, Hannibal had merely fancied the thought of discussing his interests with someone who would not be too petrified to listen nor too unimaginative to respond. He had presumed Will would provide this service for a short time before serving as a porcini tenderloin or presented rare and trickled with a bordelaise sauce. The fact that, more than a week into hosting his new guest, Hannibal was still keen to return home to him came as a pleasant surprise. Will had wiled his way onto a shackled pedestal in the eyes of his previous captor, but Hannibal had assumed the captive’s allure would be far more diluted to his own eyes. He hadn’t been prepared for the younger man’s astuteness, had not expected him to be so resilient or unequivocal with his answers. Their current arrangement however was not conducive to the continuance of their conversations. In the long-term, even a mind as acute and arresting as Will’s would wither without natural light and stimulation. And so, Hannibal began to gather the necessary supplies; ordering questionable items under various identities and fabricating stories to explain to workers why one might want to upholster an entire room, install a mirrored window and anchor bedroom furniture with industrial-strength brackets. 

If Hannibal was going to invest all this in Will, he would want something in return; acceptance of the most cardinal aspect of his life. Will had already unknowingly dined on Hannibal’s choice meat, but so had many an unsuspecting dinner guest. Driven by insatiable curiosity and unburdened by the concept of morality, Hannibal had even coerced some into consuming themselves. He could replicate that once more; force Will to knowingly swallow a cut of some deplorable pig or even starve him until his survival instinct flooded everything else out, but what he _wanted_ was more than compliance. He desired a willing participant, someone able to acknowledge the act as openly and enthusiastically as Hannibal himself. They had touched upon many a taboo during their conversations. After Will had so vividly described his revenge fantasy, Hannibal had seen fit to share the details of a tableau or two. Each time, Will offered his rapt attention, eyes looking past Hannibal but seeing him all the same. He never appeared particularly pleased about the things he was hearing, but he didn’t shy away from it or shake with fear either. Their time together was not limited solely to talking through the Ripper’s work however, they discussed a great number of things: religion, retribution, solipsism, Hannibal’s own genesis or more mundane subject matter.

The tarp for instance, was a topic Will had raised twice now and each time Hannibal had swayed the conversation in a direction better suited to himself. Will noticed this of course, there was no doubt about that, but he had a gracious sort of forbearance that allowed him to concede to Hannibal’s position of power and wait patiently for another chance to inquire as to what might be lurking behind the translucent curtain. Hannibal would reward his patience; he would soon find out.

ꭥ

After days of sufficient rest and nutrition Will felt, unexpectedly, far worse than he had before. It seemed that after living with his senses constantly flooded by adrenaline, violence and sufferance as quotidian as waking and sleeping, he had been left unprepared for a stretch of time dedicated solely to healing. This state of convalescence meant that Will had to sit quietly and _feel_ every mending bone and yellowing bruise. Without an excess of cortisol disrupting his concentration – and without such a need for vigilance and anticipation - Will was suddenly left feeling both horrifyingly present and unmoored. What had at first seemed like an improvement from his previous situation soon became the opposite. The white tiles, the white _noise._ Will had to cover his ears and sing or shout, until his throat hurt, to cope with the monotonous, mind-numbing, mechanical drone. It was a different sort of pain to the one Will was used to; a constant burn and perpetual pounding of his pulse behind his eyes. There were times when Will thought his eyes were bleeding and was shocked to pull his fingers away and find only tears.

He stayed more or less sane by slowly wearing away the leather ankle cuff; not the one used to restrain him of course – that would be instantly obvious when Hannibal came to release him – but the other, unused restraint that sat staring at him from the foot of the bed. He picked at it with his nails, bent his body in half just to chew at it, and it began to split in tiny, well-won increments. Escape wouldn’t be easy, perhaps not even possible. Will was concocting his plan based on the assumption that something useful lay beyond the ghastly tarp. The basement door was locked, with a heavy _clunk,_ each time Hannibal left. He’d need to find something to pry it open it were a deadbolt, or something to slide between the door and it’s frame it was being held shut by a latch. The reason he was willing to risk it at all was Hannibal’s insistence on blindfolding him before ever letting him see past the tarp. That, and the way he avoided answering any questions pertaining to it. The only other thing he’d need to pull of the escape was a decent stretch of time.

The first day Hannibal left for work, Will waited obediently for him to return. Will’s previous captor had reinforced his inescapability by contriving a litany of fake outings. Time and again Will had stumbled into the light – thumbs broken or ankles slick with blood – only to find his captor sat on the porch with a cigarette dangling between yellowed fingers; not intending to smoke at all but to punish Will for his inevitable disobedience. He had to be sure this was not the case with Hannibal. Four days on, Will sat doubled over on his steel bed digging at the same patch of leather. This day was different from the ones before though, for this time the split stretched to a gape, cuff held together only by strands. Will’s breath caught. He unbuckled it, slipped his foot in and then slid the unharmed section of leather strap into the buckle. It was easy to conceal the tear beneath his ankle. With one swift movement he pulled his foot free, staring at it mutely. He did it again and by the third time he was laughing manically.

Next, he pulled harshly against the other restraint. The leather was soft and Will couldn’t muster enough force to do any damage that way, so he leant forward and started twisting it instead; pressing down on the buckle so it left a nasty imprint and rubbing the edges over and over until the skin there began to look red and raw. Later, when he heard the door unlock, he folded the blanket down over the broken cuff and tried his best to look woefully distressed.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, immediately.

“I’m sorry, I panicked,” Will began and the rest of his sentence came easily being, as it were, not entirely a fabrication; “The sound, the light, there was nothing, I felt strange and I panicked, and I felt trapped…”

At this point Hannibal had reached to unclasp his ankle and had seen the damage Will had done to himself. He tutted twice and rapped his fingers against the skin which drew a hiss from Will. Other than that, they moved on with their evening as usual. The only deviation came after Will had endured his bath. Blanket still in place, he slipped his ankle into the opposite cuff, so that the damage was concealed. When he pulled the fabric back, and Hannibal looked askance at him, he faced the wall as if he were embarrassed.

“I just thought…because my other ankle hurts?”

“Very well, Will. The infection on this one has passed now, and it is nearly healed. It won’t hurt just for one night.” The padlock clicked into place and Will thanked Hannibal, waited for him to leave and then slipped free.

Tempting as it were to dart for freedom, Will set his jaw and remained seated. Routine suggested that Hannibal wouldn’t return to the basement until morning, but Will wanted to ensure he had allowed enough time for Hannibal to sink deeply into sleep before he risked making a sound. Time stretched and waned and mocked Will until sweat began to bead around the furrow of his brow and he was too fraught to delay any longer. Balling his hands to manage their shaking, he inched towards the tarp. This close, he could make out only grey, angular shapes through the thick plastic. He felt as though it should have been easier to peel it back, anxious as he had been to learn what hid beyond, and felt his upper lip curl in derision at his own hesitation. He’d been a brave man once, but the visage of his past-self became murkier every day, until only a skewed silhouette remained in the recesses of his memory. Hannibal had dimmed the lights before leaving. Now Will felt stalked by his own shadow, as if he weren’t the one casting it. At any moment it would rise up like Anasi, wrap its elongated limbs around him and suspend him from a black, viscous web. There, Hannibal would claim him as the sun rose somewhere distant and unreachable.

He supposed he should thank his shadow, as it was this image that chased him past the tarp and into the vacant space behind it. He found the dimmer switch quickly and allowed himself enough light to make out a sleek, silver chest freezer flanked by steel cabinets. First hurdle cleared, Will stared numbly at the appliance for a while with the absurd urge to rip its power source from the wall as punishment for its constant groaning. Other than these three items, and a conspicuous drain in the centre of the room, the space was empty. Will squared his shoulders and began climbing the stairs one silent step at a time. The door was thick, probably too solid and sturdy for Will to pry open and so he felt a jolt of desperate optimism when he pressed his eye to the crack and identified the latch lock keeping him contained. He’d need something equally slim and strong to slide through the crack and unhook the mechanism. Back at the bottom of the stairs he realised he was panting loudly. He tried to calm his juddering exhales and promptly found himself unable to escape the conscious control of his breathing. Part of him wished the same could be said for his heart, set as it was on undoing all the progress of his healing ribcage.

The first cabinet contained coarse rope, a pile of folded tarpaulin, a cast-iron mincer and a variety of other preparatory appliances for which Will had no name. He took care to close it slowly and then passed the freezer to inspect the contents of the other. He could feel his nerves working themselves into a frenzy at the thought that the items he’d find would be equally useless. A half-aborted gasp left his lips when he pulled the doors open. Hung in neat rows was a panoply of sharp, glinting implements for which Will could instantly think up a thousand torturous uses. He reached out, kept his hand extended for a second or two while he considered his options, and then selected what he suspected was a bone saw; it’s serrated blade like a shark’s smile.

When he turned, he was distantly thankful that terror had a paralytic effect or else he would have dropped his weapon. Hannibal stood bare-foot, stance wide, arms held loose at his sides; an opposing figure draped like a reaper in black silk. Will made a desperate, animal sound and stumbled away, narrowly missing the waiting blades at his back. Hannibal remained motionless, eyes dark and dangerous as Will raised the saw in the same vein as a cornered dog might bare its teeth.

In three smooth steps, Hannibal closed half of the distance between.

“I suspected you’d try something wh-“

It was instantly apparent to Will that Hannibal had not expected him to lunge. When he did, bone-saw cutting a notch into his captor’s shoulder, Hannibal’s eyes widened and his lips parted silently as the remainder of his sentence escaped him. With a despairing sort of groan, Will pulled back and the saw sliced further on exit. Hannibal gasped but he stumbled towards Will and they both fell back against the chest freezer. Will took the brunt of the impact to his lower back and was further winded by Hannibal’s weight against him. Before he could regain control, Hannibal had forced the saw from his hand with an agonizing twist and Will watched, as if in slow motion, as his only form of defence clattered against the ground and skidded out of reach.

“F-fuck you,” he spat, even as he curled in on himself in preparation for his punishment.

A large hand closed around his throat and forced his back straight, another strong arm pressing down on his chest to stop his flailing.

“I truly appreciate your attempt, Will,” Hannibal’s voice was deliberately measured, his eyes reduced to pits of smouldering, black ash. “The only way out is to kill me,” he said, and Will managed a panicked sob before the hand closed more tightly around his throat and his lungs writhed in vain.

“Since I have made it incredibly difficult for you to do so, I suggest the you come to terms with this life or with its inevitable end.”

Dark static encroached on his vision. He felt the same blind panic a mouse must feel in the grasp of a constrictor; coiling tighter and crushing bone. With a sudden jolt, Hannibal brought Will’s head between his hands and struck his temple hard against the solid edge of the cabinet. In the dark void that followed, only seconds before he lost consciousness, Will heard Hannibal’s voice.

“What a cunning boy you are.”


	7. Inure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inure - to accept or grow accustomed to something undesirable.

Consciousness returned to Will one sense at a time. First, a dull and disembodied ache with no discernible cause that settled in him like maggots under the skin. Next, the smell of copper and then a long, low grinding sound like a rusted boat engine. Finally, and with a sense of foul familiarity, the sight of white tiles and buzzing white lights above him. The sound came to a sudden halt and Will’s breath hitched, waiting out the eerie silence that followed. Only when the grinding started up again did Will feel concealed enough to sit up and examine his leaden limbs – none of which were currently bound to the bedframe. Once, right at the start – however long ago that was – Will had had several of his toes broken for trying to escape. Now they jutted at unnatural angles but remained otherwise unscathed. He raised his fingers to the tender skin of his temple and hissed as they came away coated in tacky blood. The site of impact started to throb as if reawakened. Several possibilities entered Will’s mind uninvited. One, that the aggressive sound behind the tarp indicated the method of torture that would act as his punishment. Another, that he had been left without restraints as a test, to see if he had learnt his lesson. Finally, and Will feared the most likely, was the scenario in which Hannibal had become disenchanted with Will and was brandishing a loud weapon with which to end him. _The future is in your hands_ , he had said, and Will had taken it, balled it up and thrown it into an abyss. There was nothing to do but stand and face Hannibal. Will had been broken and debased in every imaginable way. The least he could grant himself was a dignified end. Nausea hit him like a crowbar to the back of the head as he stood, and he stumbled once…twice…then regained his footing.

Hannibal stood with his broad back to Will, muscles tensing and relaxing as he brought his arm back and forth in an aggressive yet measured motion. He was dressed now, his shirt tented at the shoulder by the gauze beneath. Other than that, he didn’t look nearly as bad as Will felt. A metal trestle table stood in the centre of the room, positioned directly over the drain, and it was at this table that Hannibal was currently sawing slices from a dismembered torso. Will gripped the tarp to steady himself but staggered regardless. His stomach contents left him before he had even hit the ground and the tarp tore free from the hooks suspending it and stuck to him like the plastic film used to wrap mass produced meat products. The grinding stopped and Hannibal turned and advanced on Will as he struggled to disentangle himself. When the older man reached him, electric carving knife still in hand, he lifted the tarp from Will with an expression not unlike a child lifting a rock and finding an amusing insect underneath. _So much for dying with dignity,_ Will thought, as he scrambled to his feet and was promptly hit by another wave of nausea.

“A shame you couldn’t make it to the drain, Will.” Hannibal said, eyeing his vomit with sombre resignation.

“Please, I don’t I – I,” Will sputtered, hands held in front of him. His eyes flicked to the carcass and then to the blade in Hannibal’s hand. “God - I - _please._ ”

It was not unlike the one Will had brandished in vain and he looked to Hannibal’s shoulder again and paled.

“This model is far more effective than your weapon of choice,” Hannibal said flippantly. “Had you used this, you might have cut right through my acromion. Come Will, you can be of assistance.”

Will stayed rooted to the spot as Hannibal turned and resumed grinding through blanched flesh. He could feel himself slipping into a state of hysteria, eyes darting from the chest freezer to Hannibal and then to the dwindling torso. He shuffled to the freezer, giving Hannibal a wide birth. When he reached it, he flicked his eyes to the man currently butchering a human being and found him quite absorbed in his work. The freezer lit his face as he opened it and he scrunched his eyes against the light as his head throbbed in protest. Illuminated by a sickly, yellow glow, and stacked with paradoxical neatness, were a variety of human limbs and organs.

He stepped back and the freezer slammed shut. The grinding stopped.

“You’re eating them.” Will realised aloud, voice grim.

“Yes.” Hannibal agreed, and Will noted, even through his fogged state of mind, that his captor’s voice had an unusual, anticipatory tone to it.

Will span round to face him and perhaps it was the motion that sent him to the floor, if not the dawning realisation of his current circumstance. He sank back against the chest freezer and shook, the entire room stretching out impossibly as if he were sliding backwards.

“Is this a fever dream? I don’t understand.” His voice sounded unfamiliar, higher, younger even.

Hannibal considered him over the torso for a few long seconds, face passive, and then placed the blade down. He came to crouch before him and Will flinched back, hitting his head against the freezer and groaning. With a curious smile, his captor reached forward and placed his hand to the unbloodied side of Will’s forehead. Will waited for the touch to turn rough and exhaled shakily when Hannibal drew his hand away to move two fingers from one side to the other. He only realised he was staring blankly ahead when a hand tapped his cheek firmly to gain his attention. He followed the fingers with his eyes this time, trying to regulate his breathing.

“Not a fever,” Hannibal stated with confidence, pulling Will to his feet as if he weighed nothing. “Perhaps a slight concussion.”

Not letting go of Will, he manoeuvred them both around to stand at the table. The Torso bore a tattoo, a stretched and faded depiction of a vintage Chevy pick-up. It struck Will to see it again and he blinked back bitter tears, turning his head away until Hannibal’s hands dropped from his shoulders.

“Is this my punishment?” Will asked, still stubbornly facing the wall.

“Was I presumptuous, to think the killing wouldn’t bother you?” Came Hannibal’s reply.

“No I - ” Will shook his head fervently, which caused his sight to warp again. He had to turn back towards the body and grip the edge of the table to stay upright. “No,” he repeated, more resolute this time, “No, I wish _I’d_ done it.”

“The eating then?” Hannibal asked, and was answered by his captive’s grimace. “I am sorry to have taken this kill from you, Will. Let me assure you, there is no greater act of dominance than eating your enemy.”

Will’s laugh came in one harsh and bitter exhale. He looked down at the tattoo once more and felt his upper lip curl at the sight of it. He had punched and scratched out at it so many times, begging for a reprieve, begging just to breathe.

“If it’s the taste, I can assure you it’s sublime.” Hannibal’s voice pulled Will from his own head. Will looked up at him, only managing to meet his eyes from the corner of his own. It suddenly struck Will that his captor sounded like a parent trying to convince a child to eat their greens. He laughed shakily and Hannibal answered with a genuine crinkle at the corners of his eyes. At some point, the laughing became crying and Hannibal didn’t seem to mind. He just continued watching Will with mutated fondness.

“I can’t,” Will keened.

“You can. You _have_.” Hannibal replied amicably, ignoring the way his captive shuddered as he grasped his hand, uncurling Will’s fingers by force and then folding them firmly around the electric knife handle.

Will thought back to the meals he had consumed with Hannibal since he’d arrived. He’d been ravenous, physically aching for sustenance. The entire time, he’d been eating the one who had starved him.

“Some of the oldest human bones found had been butchered, Will.” His captor continued, voice deliberately soothing as if breaking in a wild animal. “Cannibalism is innate and who are we to reject our nature when it has gotten us both this far?”

Will’s head swam, staring down at his own hand as if it belonged to someone else.

“We’ve evolved,” he argued, starting to release the blade but freezing when Hannibal’s hand came down over his to keep it there.

“In England there is no law prohibiting the consumption of human flesh,” Hannibal purred, and then he leaned in impossibly close to Will and whispered the rest of the sentence into his ear; ‘One man put this to the test and, when they tried to imprison him, the charges were dropped and he ate his hors d'œuvre on the steps of the courthouse.’

“It’s sinful,” Will tried, no real force behind the words. He allowed Hannibal to guide his hand so that it was hovering shakily out between them.

“You yourself mentioned that the God of Time ate his own children,” Hannibal reminded him, beginning to push down on Will’s hand to close the distance between the edge of the blade and the prone flesh beneath it. Will shook his head frantically but didn’t pull his hand back. Hannibal made a soothing sound and continued; “Whaitiri was a cannibal goddess who wanted to start a family for herself. One could argue it’s intrinsically holy.”

“D-do you have an answer to everything?” Will hissed, between gritted teeth. In a past life, that sort of remark would have been answered with a swift beating, but Hannibal only rubbed a circle at the base of Will’s spine.

“In this matter, I’m afraid so.”

The blade came to rest just above where Hannibal had left off, and the meat looked so much like sliced ham that Will found himself wondering if it were because the man it came from was the personification of a pig.

“Is this my punishment?” Will repeated lamely, because there _had_ to be a punishment. He had tried to escape, had attacked Hannibal.

“Not at all,” his captor responded, releasing his hand once he was certain it would remain put, “this is the beginning of your becoming.”

Will’s knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip and lifted the knife from where Hannibal had guided his hand. He felt his captor tense beside him, a minute response only noticeable due to their proximity. The years before Hannibal gathered, like a jagged collage of beatings, blood and bruises, in Will’s mind. He flicked the switch and tried to ignore the way the grinding sound rattled around his skull. When he brought the knife down, with a sigh and a sense of calm, it was over the tattoo.

ꭥ

Will made only one cut, but the few seconds it took him to do so became one of the most profound moments in Hannibal’s life. When his captive was done, he switched the blade off and placed it on the table - trembling and teary-eyed and stunning in his distress. Hannibal hushed him in the same tone he had used decades ago when his sister had awoken from nightmares she was too young to properly understand. His captive stood stiff but as Hannibal forced him round and into the warmth of his arms, he felt the trembling body go lax and was able to cup the back of Will’s head and shield his pale and bloodied face against his chest. The embrace held more intimacy for Hannibal than any of his one-sided romantic affairs. If he could have brought his lips to the fine curls in his hand without shattering the moment, he would have. Will’s shaking hands found purchase in the fabric of his captor’s shirt, and Hannibal committed the moment as an ivory effigy in the parlour of his memory palace.

“Come, Will,” He murmured, when he had taken his fill, “you’ll need your rest.”

With a hard swallow, Will slunk away from Hannibal and turned towards the steel bedframe. Hannibal noted that his captive didn’t flinch when he reached out and held his wrist to stop him, but merely furrowed his brow in confusion and looked up at him with swimming eyes like lacquered crystals. Hannibal led him towards the stairs and was mildly stupefied to find that he enjoyed this Will – docile and dependent – as much as the Will that savaged him with a saw and a desperate cry only hours before. No matter how Will was breaking, it was always achingly beautiful.

It was not yet dawn and the glow of the streetlights were blocked by the brocade draped at every window. Hannibal guided Will through the dark by memory, lacing an arm around his back to support him. Up and then up again, to the stretching corridors that branched into more rooms than Hannibal had any need for. Will’s room was not complete, but Hannibal’s hand had been rushed. It was secure, but his captive would find himself nearly as bored in this gilded prison as he had been in the basement. It was not until they reached Will’s en-suite that Hannibal flicked on the first light, arm tightening around Will, poised to protect him against the reaction elicited by his concussion. Of course, Will did flinch and bring a hand to shield his eyes but not so violently as Hannibal had expected. Propped on the edge of the bathtub, Will watched Hannibal closely as he dabbed at the blood on his forehead and wiped the perspiration from his face. Occasionally, their eyes met and Hannibal basked in the freedom that came with having nothing left to hide. He thought of running a bath, running his hands over Will, perhaps even sliding in behind him, but restrained himself not to sully a moment that he hoped Will would look back on with a sense of pride and exultance.

After Will had rinsed his mouth, Hannibal led him to his bed and pressed a plastic cup of water into his hands.

“It will be important to stay well-hydrated for the next few days,” he told him once he had sipped at it and allowed Hannibal to take it and place it on the bedside table. “Rest and water,” Hannibal said, guiding him under several layers of blankets and pulling them up to his chin.

“Are you a doctor?” Will asked, and Hannibal flashed him a look of mock disappointment.

“Don’t be coy, Will,” he said, running a hand through his curls, “you know what I am.”


	8. Opulence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really didn't want to be written, but I got there in the end. Hope it's okay.

When Will awoke, it was in a room lined with navy blue, tufted wall panels; an avantgarde depiction of a padded cell. Brought together with a floor that looked like remnants of a forest fire and the heavy, walnut furniture, the room held the impression of the ocean at night. Alone, these components might have been overbearing, but together they formed a dark panorama that Will admired despite himself. He dragged himself upright and finished the water that had been left for him the previous night. It was warm and stale and left him parched for more. Despite knowing there were a multitude of things he needed to address with himself, he pushed all coherent thought to the back of his mind and took his fill from the bathroom sink. He left the tap running, spreading his hands beneath the flow and watching the water divide and disappear between his fingers. _Real, running water_. There was no mirror above the sink and Will distantly catalogued this fact: no suicide or weaponizing glass shards allowed.

Biting his lip, he turned to the shower. There was a fresh towel hanging next to it suggestively. No lock on the bathroom door, no hiding from Hannibal, but Will had been bathed by the man nearly every night since his arrival and so there was no sense letting insecurity take hold. He slipped from the pyjamas and stepped in, noting that the showerhead was fixed, no hose for garrotting captors then. The shower was bliss and the fact that the body wash smelt distinctly of Hannibal didn’t subtract from the euphoria of hot water or the privilege of showering alone. He stayed there long enough for the bathroom to fill with steam and his skin to take on a cooked-lobster hue, and then wrapped the towel tightly around his waist, bundled his pyjamas under one arm and stepped tentatively out into the bedroom. It was empty, and Will sighed and shuffled over to an extravagantly carved chest of drawers to see if Hannibal had gone as far as to provide him with clean clothes. He had. The top drawer was lined with crisp shirts in varying shades of blue and the second with sleek, black trousers. The bottom drawer held a variety of briefs and socks, still in their packaging. It all fit far too well to have belonged to Hannibal.

Will tried the bedroom door, more out of obligation than the notion it would open. It remained tightly locked as he had expected. He had never picked a lock, but he searched the drawers for pens and paperclips regardless and came up empty handed. He crossed the room and peeled back the curtains, aware that the windows would be boarded before he had even looked. The thick planks were fixed so tightly to the wall that there was no way for Will to slide his fingers under and get the purchase needed to pull them free. The nails were embedded deeply in the wood and Will could try to dig them out though he’d be more likely to snap off his fingernails trying. Still, if it came to it, he would break every one of them and then use his teeth. If he could barricade the door with the furniture it might give him enough time to succeed. Will gave the drawers an experimental shove and found that they were firmly anchored to the wall. 

On all accounts Hannibal was a step ahead of him. The upholstery provided a layer of soundproofing and, even if Will did yell for help, there was no way of knowing if there was anyone close enough to help him or if it would result in him being gagged. He opened the wardrobe, doubting there’d be any wire hangers to throttle Hannibal with but needing to check, and found it empty. Despite all his ideas disintegrating before his eyes, Will felt no sense of panic or urgency. Hannibal could have killed him but had given him his own room instead. He was relying on conditioning; rewards for desirable behaviour. Given time, which would undoubtedly come with increased freedom if Will did as asked, the chance to escape would make itself known. With this thought on repeat in his mind, Will made the bed and sat patiently.

ꭥ

Hannibal checked on Will twice and found him sleeping heavily both times, buried beneath blankets, his burdened brain taking all the rest it could. He had no urge to wake him or disturb him in any way. While Hannibal could purge himself on death and destruction, healing someone was just another form of taking a person’s life into his own hands, one that came with the power to shape an individual in the same way he might set a bone. He filled his morning by perusing missing persons reports. Several Wills had disappeared over the last few years, but he found _his_ Will in an archived copy of The Louisiana Revielle, dated nearly three years prior:

**_Have you seen me?_ **

_‘Will Graham, a final year criminology student at Louisiana State, was reported missing this weekend after failing to show up for his shift at a local service station. Staff at the adjoining garage describe him as ‘the hardworking, quiet type’ and are increasingly concerned for his wellbeing.’_

Below the short paragraph was a picture of a younger Will, much the same as in the earliest polaroid pictures Hannibal had discovered – only with a lax face and eyes not darkened by distress. Hannibal filled the remainder of his morning sketching his own rendition, in which Will’s temple was dappled with blood and a hazy outline of a bone saw was reflected in his eyes. When he checked on Will a third time, well into the evening, he found him perched prettily at the edge of his bed; washed and dressed in the clothes Hannibal had bought for him. A pale pearl in a dark velvet jewellery box.

“You look much better, Will,” he said, going to sit beside him to press a palm against his forehead. “How do you feel?”

“My head hurts,” his captive admitted, stiffening slightly under the touch, “but otherwise I’m fine, thank you.”

His manners were contrived, but Hannibal appreciated the effort Will put into pleasing him even while he was brimming with unease. He didn’t hold Will’s discomfort against him. He’d give him time to thaw out over dinner, perhaps with a glass or two of wine to really break the ice.

“Is the room to your liking?” He asked.

“It’s- yes,” Will looked around as he spoke, as if seeing it for the first time, though Hannibal could tell – from the open bathroom door to the shift in the heavy fabric of the curtains – that Will had already scouted every inch of the place.

“Perhaps, if dinner goes well, you could have a book to keep you occupied while I’m away?”

“Dinner?” Will asked, eyebrows raised before knitting in concentration. Hannibal remained passive as his captive came to terms with the length of time he had spent unconscious. After a moment, Will’s expression became one of contemplation. He met Hannibal’s eye and then quickly looked down at his own hands clasped, white-knuckled, in his lap.

“I can hear your brain writhing in your skull, Will. A penny for your thoughts?”

Will took a deep breath, steeling himself and Hannibal inched towards him on the bed, eager to unpick and be unpicked in turn.

“I passed a test, down in the basement,” Will said, eventually “I got rewarded and so now, consciously or subconsciously, I’ll strive to keep behaving in the way you want me to.”

Hannibal placed a hand on his captive’s knee, watching blue eyes dart to the offending appendage and then quickly come to terms with its presence. _So used to being owned_ , Hannibal acknowledged silently and the thought of anyone possessing Will other than himself was distinctly unwelcome.

“It hardly seems that you will,” He reasoned, “since you are so _aware_ of your conditioning.”

If Will had been lesser, perhaps desperate enough to entertain the delusion that Hannibal’s mercy spawned from a conscience or saviour complex – he would have only been a brief distraction. If Will had struggled instantly against his restraints and flung himself hard against the walls like a strong, but ultimately helpless lab animal, he would have been dispatched just as quickly. Hannibal kept Will in the same vain one might keep a python; admiring it while it stretched beside them, appearing languorous but intending only to measure their keeper for consumption. It was that danger, that cognizance, that patience which kept Hannibal enthralled. But Will was just a hatchling and Hannibal was the charmer, flute in hand.

Will narrowed his eyes cautiously.

“And that doesn’t bother you?” he asked.

Hannibal leant forward, until they were inches apart, with no need to speak above a whisper; _“It invigorates me.”_

Will shivered and, setting his mouth into a forced smile, gave one, stiff nod. Hannibal found that watching Will internalise his wishes, veiling himself in them like an optical illusion, was pleasant enough for now. With his captive dazed from too much sleep, and still sorely concussed, Hannibal decided it was safe to take him down to the dining room, though he did cuff his hands behind his back.

“Since there will be knives,” he explained needlessly as the cuffs clicked into place, “and I have no desire to have to stitch myself up a second time.”

Will swallowed visibly and glanced at Hannibal’s shoulder but didn’t say he was sorry. Well mannered, but not willing to lie about the desire to hurt his captor. Hannibal ruffled his hair as he passed him to return to the kitchen. In truth, it had been an ordeal to patch himself up. The blade had not dug as deep as it could have which lead Hannibal to suspect it was due to a combination of factors; Will was scared, hands sweating; he we weak, only a week or so since years of starvation had come to an end; and he had been taut and trembling with adrenaline. Despite this, Hannibal had been required to suture the wound himself and now every movement was charged with a sharp pain that reached his fingertips. He didn’t hold it against Will, it was a brave and logical reaction, though he had taken some pleasure in regaining control by dashing Will’s head and watching him crumple to the floor. When he returned, serving tray in hand, Will was sat where he had left him – looking pale and apprehensive.

“You and I both had a hand in preparing this meal,” Hannibal announced, as he set the Porchetta tenderloin at the centre of the table. It was wrapped in thin slices of mechanic, sat on a bed of rosemary sprigs and garnished with fennel seeds.

“I think you did most of the work,” Will said, grimly.

Hannibal took it as praise, with a small incline of his head, as he plated a generous serving for his guest. The pinot noir was already poured, and he picked up his glass as he sat at the head of the table, with Will to his right, and raised it to his nose.

“A light bodied vintage,” he said, before closing his eyes and taking a small sip, “a hint of vanilla from the oak aging.”

Will was eyeing his plate and Hannibal rankled in the absence of his usual rapt attention. He took Will’s glass in hand and held it out just beneath his nose which caused his dinner guest to start and then recoil from the glass as if the burgundy liquid were blood.

“What do you think, Will?” Hannibal asked, keeping the glass suspended.

Eyes only for Hannibal now, he inched his face forward and inhaled.

“I don’t know much about wine,” he admitted, and he looked pained, as if that flaw alone was enough to have Hannibal lose interest in him.

“I will teach you,” Hannibal said, simply and lowered the glass to press against Will’s lips. “Drink.”

Will, as usual, obeyed. When a stray drop of red trickled to his chin, Hannibal caught it with his thumb and raised it to his own lips, watching Will as he tracked the movement with wary eyes over the rim of his glass.

ꭥ

It was a piteous fact that, arms bound tightly behind his back, Will felt more dignified than at any point in the past three years. Washed, dressed and sat at a dining table, the fact he was restrained barely registered. When Hannibal removed the glass from his lips, Will glanced back at his plate and tried not to fret.

“It’s no different than before,” Hannibal mollified, reaching over to cut Will’s food for him.

He considered Hannibal’s blank expression for a long moment; even more vacant than usual. It was not too difficult, for Will at least, to recognize that his captor was concealing something genuine; something raw and fervid and potentially life-threatening. This moment was every bit as critical as their shared butchery the night before and Hannibal’s forced composure was more than his customary façade. When the fork was lifted, Will ensured he maintained eye contact as he leant forward and closed his lips around the offering. He didn’t miss the way Hannibal’s breath caught, and a surge of something dark and desperate – and not born from his own emotions - doused his limbic system. Hannibal was heinous and ruthless and entirely _alone_. Will drew his lips back around the metal prongs and couldn’t help but reflect on how splintered and resentful and equally forsaken he himself had become. A single tear, born partly from pre-emptive guilt, slipped free.

“Thank you,” he whispered, once he had swallowed, and it wasn’t fair that in a rare moment of transparency, Hannibal looked wretchedly hopeful.

“Why am I here?” Will asked, if for no other reason than to restore his captor to his dispassionate and unreadable self.

It worked instantly, something slamming shut behind brown eyes and Will began to wonder if he had only ever been projecting his own desperation. He blinked his tears back and set his mouth in a straight line and it was as if nothing between them had changed. Hannibal took a bite of his own food and, it in a way that had become predictable, turned Will’s question against him.

“Why do you think?” He asked, seemingly cool and detached, and Will shifted in his seat and began to suspect that for once Hannibal did not want a genuine answer.

“Th-those aren’t the rules,” Will deflected.

“No,” Hannibal allowed, and something in him unfurled, “perhaps a new game, then?”

With a sigh, Will nodded and then dipped his head to take another bite of his food when Hannibal offered.

“Tell me anything you’d like about yourself, and I’ll match it with a fact of my own.”

Will swallowed, thought, and decided to start easy.

“I grew up in Louisiana,” he said, remembering the clangour of boats docking and the fuzzy melodies of his father’s jazz cassettes.

“I was born in Lithuania,” Hannibal supplied, and Will wondered what sort of memories that evoked for his captor. He seemed tranquil, as he sipped his wine, but Will felt sure that Hannibal could not have emerged from a happy childhood.

“I was an only child,” Will said, “I spent a lot of time alone.”

“I had a sister,” Hannibal looked almost wistful as he spoke, “at a young age I too learnt to keep myself company.”

“I’m sorry,” Will whispered.

“That’s not the game, Will.”

Hannibal forced him to take another mouthful of wine, as if to stop any more platitudes slipping free. They ate in silence for a while; a bite for Hannibal, then for Will.

“My dad died,” Will mumbled, when it was Hannibal’s turn to eat, “I was his carer…before,” he continued, and it took a while for him to figure out that the sudden rattling sound was coming from the cuffs around his shaking hands, scraping the back of the chair. “They brought his eulogy down to me, they were pleased. It had only been a few months, I think.”

“Cretins,” Hannibal murmured.

“That’s not the game, _Hannibal”_ Will spat, and then flinched when his captor rose from his chair and came to stand behind him. “No,” he shook his head when Hannibal’s hand came to rest on his shoulders and was ignored. “I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry,” he said, frantically before realising that the other man was simply working the tension out of his spine.

“A lot of hurt will return to you,” Hannibal said, slowly pressing his thumbs into knotted tendons and forcing them to go lax, “Things you thought you had come to terms with will sneak up on you with a vengeance now that you have been given a reprieve.”

“More or less,” Will muttered and Hannibal made an amused sound.

“More or less,” he agreed.

Bit by bit, and against all instinct, Will relaxed under Hannibal’s hands until he was staring blankly at an oil painting of Leda and the Swan and thinking of nothing.

ꭥ

They retired to the study and Hannibal took a seat to watch Will peruse his collection of literature. The bookcases were tall and so Will’s head was raised to read the spines towards the top. This, and the fact his hands were still tied at the base of his back, forced him to adopt a posture that would have appeared confident in any other circumstance. Amber light bounced from the strong line of his jaw and illuminated the sharp curve of his Adam’s apple. He really was rather beautiful, but Hannibal suspected that sharing that thought would trigger another negative reaction and he wanted their night to end peacefully.

“Lord of the Flies,” Will said, after a while, straining his neck to look at the top shelf.

“A favourite of yours?” Hannibal asked, coming to stand at his side.

“I always wanted to be one of the boys, lighting fires and spearing fish.” Will said, with a rueful smile and Hannibal could picture it, a lithe boy with wild curls and wilder eyes.

“I don’t think that’s the reaction Golding intended.” Hannibal said, reaching over Will to retrieve the book.

Will was all forced smiles and good manners again, which Hannibal appreciated. What he truly desired, however, was to tear that cobbled exterior to shreds and pry his fingers into his captive’s raw, molten core. He was possessed with the conflicting need to pillage Will’s mind and consume his body, while nurturing and cultivating him as if he were a fragile sapling in his herb garden. There would be time for that. Will had lost everyone and the search for the missing student had ceased long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so a little thing I learnt about snake charming in some impromptu research for this chapter – it fucking sucks. They sew the snakes’ mouths shut and they can’t even hear the music, just the vibrations which they think is a predator. Pretty gross. (yeah, yeah, yeah – I did a bunch of research into cannibalism which is bad too, but animals!)


	9. Hireath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hireath – homesickness for a home to which you cannot return

“You’re different, Hannibal,” Alana said with a wry smile, “something’s changed.”

Hannibal looked up at her, over the minimalist display of designer clutch bags, and made no attempt to confirm nor deny the accuracy of her observation.

“This will go well with your dress,” he said instead, holding up a piece he knew matched Alana’s taste.

She narrowed her eyes at his deflection but considered it, reaching out to run her fingers across the velvet, quilted front.

Their relationship had been bordering on courting for quite some time, but now Hannibal found he had little patience for it. The American Psychiatric Association was hosting a charity event which coincided with the end of fellowship for Alana and her peers. While Hannibal had originally been dismayed to have her fly out from under his wing, he now couldn’t wait to set his attention on Will alone. Alana was gifted, but she was ultimately stifled by benevolence and moral consternation.

“It’s perfect,” she said, “ _of course_.” And Hannibal gave her his most indulgent smile. “So, really, Hannibal. What’s changed?” And this time he detected a hint of anxiety in her tone.

“I’m merely proud that my mentee has achieved so much,” he said, “and am enjoying treating her to the finer things in life.”

“The bag? No Hannibal, you can’t!” She protested, predictably.

“We can hardly allow this milestone to go unmarked,” He said, already moving to the counter and reaching into his jacket for his credit card.

“Dinner then,” Alana said from behind him, and Hannibal stopped and swallowed his irritation before turning to her.

“Charleston?” He suggested, already certain that Alana had something more intimate in mind.

“I don’t think I can make this transition without tasting your cooking at least one more time,” she said, her smile just on wrong side of coy.

There wasn’t much Hannibal could do but acquiesce, aware that if he retired suddenly from society it would only raise suspicion. He had been cultivating his socialite persona for the better part of a decade and already he had passed on several events to be with Will.

On their way through the men’s aisles, a vintage shaving set caught Hannibal’s eye. Set into a jade handle, the blade glistened under the display light.

-

Will had almost finished Lord of the Flies when Hannibal returned, and was sat against the headboard with the bulk of the book folded back on itself. Hannibal inwardly cringed at the damage it had done to the spine and was thankful that his guest had not picked out a first edition. Will startled when he entered and looked up with confusion writ across his face.

“Will,” Hannibal chided, noticing the unopened container of food on the bedside table, “have you moved at all today?”

“I-” He appeared a little dazed, as if just waking from a lucid dream. “I didn’t realise how much time had passed, I’m sorry.”

Hannibal hummed and took the book from him, closing it gently and running a thumb along the spine as if to force the crinkled cover smooth. He had taken patients until the late afternoon and kept Alana company well into the early evening. Will had clearly lost himself in the story and his fingers remained outstretched, mourning the loss of the book.

“I’m not taking it, Will,” Hannibal said firmly, relishing the way he could evoke such a pained expression from his guest with his actions and then make a balm of his words and have Will’s pretty face go lax, almost trusting. Orchestrating his reactions was addictive.

“What’s that?” Will asked, eyeing the box in Hannibal’s hand. He shifted back an inch or two, pressing himself harder into the headboard.

“A straight razor,” Hannibal replied, opening the box as he spoke and watching Will’s face blanche, “I’m going to shave you.”

Will shuddered as Hannibal extracted the blade from the silk lining of its case.

“You don’t have to do that, but thank you,” He said, quietly. His smile was the least convincing Hannibal had seen so far.

“Will,” he said, and he was aware that his person suit was straining at the seams when Will inhaled shakily at the sound of his name, “consider your circumstances. This isn’t a matter of choice.”

He had expected Will to submit or try to skitter back. The flash of rage that crossed his face, there one moment and concealed the next, was a very pleasant surprise. If he picked at Will’s timidity and trauma, he would find wrath beneath.

“Now, eat your lunch while I prepare. I can’t be blamed for nicking an artery if you sway from hunger.”

When he was ready, he sat Will at the desk under amber lamplight, and worked the cream in circles with a soft bristled brush. He had considered using his hands, so that he could trace his fingers along the length of his neck, the angular curve of his jaw, but restrained himself. He exercised restraint in most aspects of his life, but with Will it often verged on onerous. Will, for the most part, remained commendably stoic, though his eyes were trained on the razor which sat waiting on the desk. For a moment, Hannibal had considered that Will might reach out for it. He could conjure the event in his mind with crystal clarity; Will’s arm striking out python-fast and Hannibal interceding with equal speed - punctuating the failed attempt with the snap of Will’s wrist. He looked down at those wrists then, too slender, marred by past restraints, and slid the razor further from reach as not to have to cause them any more damage. He tried not to ruminate over the action.

“Try to stay still,” He soothed, as he reached for the blade and elicited a nervous tic from Will. “I’m well versed in the use of a straight razor. It was the implement with which my uncle first taught me to shave.”

His guest was watching him, undoubtedly reading his intentions, trying to pre-empt a violent turn of his hand. Hannibal decided he would do this more often, if it garnered him such riveted and fearful attention. When Hannibal passed the blade over the underside of his jaw, Will gripped the edge of his seat but otherwise remained exceptionally still, barely breathing.

“You’re very pale, Will,” he said, as the blade cut a clear path through the foam, revealing a strip of rare, unblemished skin. “It’s not unpleasant. Like ivory or alabaster.”

Will looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“It’s called vitamin D deficiency,” he replied, in a rare show of audacity, though his voice wavered towards the end of the sentence.

Hannibal had considered this, when he had gazed on the younger, more robust Will from the missing persons article. He had been bright eyed and bronzed from the sun once. Beautiful then but equally beautiful now, Hannibal found he had no preference.

“Do you miss the sun?” He asked, and it was cruel question, meant to punish Will for his curt response.

“Who wouldn’t?” Will ‘s voice was hoarse, and Hannibal imagined it was as much due to yearning as it was from the strain of keeping his throat still and exposed as he spoke.

He dipped the blade in the waiting bowl of water and started on the delicate skin of Will’s cupid bow. It seemed that Will’s words became blunt when he felt threatened and Hannibal turned that thought over in his mind, confused by the juxtaposition with Will’s usual polite deference. He was burdened, always, with huge amounts of fear. It was one of the things Hannibal enjoyed about him, but he usually handled it with more grace.

“Do you believe I mean to hurt you?” He asked, coming to a realisation, lips twitching up at the accusatory glint in Will’s eyes. Unable to talk, with the blade sat just above his lips, he supposed that he was proving his intent to harm just by asking a question. “You’re like a cornered dog today, Will. Snarling.”

He continued his ministrations, not giving Will room to reply. It was clear to Hannibal, that Will assumed the worst; that Hannibal had brought the razor to his room as part of a cruel game – to maim and mangle. His guest was resigned to it, sitting stiff in anticipation, waiting for the first cut.

“When you’re avoiding pain, skirting around it like a muskrat round a crocodile’s den, you’re the picture of courtesy and compliance,” he mused, “but when you think the battles already lost, you bare your incisors at me.” It appeared that Will was only meek when meekness bore results.

Hannibal made the final pass of the blade over skin and Will began to relax minutely with the realisation that Hannibal hadn’t hurt him.

“I quite like that fire, I may endeavour to threaten you more,” Hannibal said and, with a crocodile’s smile, turned the blade inwards and nicked Will just under his cheekbone.

Will flinched back and hissed but then, as Hannibal raised the hand mirror for Will to see the smooth shave and barely-there bead of blood, Will began to laugh. It was a fairly manic reaction, and oddly endearing; a sound of relief and disbelief. The blade was placed safely back in its box and Will, having survived more-or-less unharmed, sagged in his chair with a shaky smile.

ꭥ

Hannibal trimmed his hair next and Will held his tongue and came out unscathed. When it was done, he looked a lot more like the student he used to be. He was gaunt though, with bloodshot eyes and wan skin, and he could only bare to look at himself for a few seconds before turning away. Hannibal tucked the mirror under his arm and excused himself to clean the shaving set and Will picked at the dried blood on his cheek as he waited for him to return.

He had truly believed that Hannibal meant to cut him, and not in the teasing way he had nicked Will; like a wild cat nipping in play. Not accustomed to misreading intentions, having survived solely due to his keen empathic abilities up until that point, Will felt vulnerable and ill at ease. Letting his eyes slip closed, he tried to assemble a profile of sorts, for his enigmatic captor. On the surface, Hannibal surrounded himself with the aesthetic and ornamental. Running a hand over the smooth skin of his jaw, Will acknowledged that he had become somewhat of an embellishment in Hannibal’s home. In stark contrast, Hannibal enveloped himself in death, destruction and rended flesh. He relished Will’s fear and yet gained equal satisfaction from soothing him and encouraging Will to cleave to him like a remora to a shark; hopelessly dependent yet an asset in some vague sense. Abiding by his rules was crucial, but a spark of deviance thrilled him so long as he maintained the upper hand. Convenient, Will thought wryly, since Hannibal seemed confident in the fact that he would always hold the upper hand; a hubris which might one day become Will’s sole advantage. Hannibal was a man of antitheses, but above all he was dangerous. A fact that was substantiated when he returned to Will’s room with an iron crowbar in place of the hand mirror.

Will skittered back, sent his chair sprawling, and found himself pressed against the wardrobe as Hannibal ignored him and made for the window in long, leisurely strides. With an uncharacteristic grunt, he lodged the metal prongs under a plank and wrenched it free. Plank by plank, the nails tore out, groaning, and Will remained clear of the wreckage until his captor finished and let the crowbar drop from his hand with a dull _clunk_. Fixing his hair with one hand, he beckoned Will with the other.

“This is mirrored glass,” he said, as Will approached. “You can see out, but no one can see in.”

Will didn’t respond, could barely make sense of Hannibal’s words because there, _right there_ past the window, he could see grass and dotted trees beneath a burnt orange sky. He was at the back of the house, he realised, looking first out over a modest garden with a sleek patio and neatly trimmed grass. Beyond that, there was stretch of green - somewhere he might have liked to walk his dog as a child - and then further, merely jagged silhouettes in the distance, stood a row of houses with bright pinpricks for windows. Without much thought beyond a raucous sense of longing at his core, Will picked up the chair where it had landed and set it before the window. He sat and, placing his palm against the cool glass, whispered his thanks to Hannibal. 

ꭥ

Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed and allowed Will several minutes of comfortable silence before he picked up the book and began reading from where Will had left off.

_“His voice rose under the black smoke before the burning wreckage of the island; and infected by that emotion, the other little boys began to shake and sob too. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called…”_

When he realised Will was not listening, consciousness gliding somewhere out between the trees, he closed the book and watched him; for once enjoying the absence of Will’s regard and the time it gave him to sit and ponder the pained lines of his face. He had seen a bear once, in a zoo in Lithuania, pent up and pacing in a small stone enclosure. There was something dominating, yet distasteful, about reducing a ferocious beast to an agitated sideshow. Perhaps the cruellest thing about the cage had been the glass wall with the snow blanketed forest beyond; a pleasing backdrop for the viewer and a source of torment for the creature that felt only concrete beneath its paws. He had stood, inches from the thing, and had seen something haunting in its eyes; imagined freeing it and watching it wreak bloody vengeance on the crowd. Will had the same look now, and Hannibal left briefly to collect his sketchpad and pencil so he could sketch his guest’s tortured profile before the natural light had faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you so much for your kudos and comments. They make my day. Unfortunately I'm having a bit of a rough time right now so I'll be taking a short break from this fic. I'm so sorry. I know it's frustrating when you're into a story and then it goes on hiatus, but I promise i'll be back once my health has improved.


	10. Busticate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Busticate - To break into pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for your kind words and patience. It feels great to be in a place where I can continue this story. 
> 
> Please check the tags, this chapter explores some difficult topics.

For the longest time, Will had abandoned the notion of ever seeking the sort of gratification he had once sought alone, in low light, with his own hand. Everything pertaining to pleasure had been sullied and touching came with associations that left him horrified and haunted long after he’d inevitably gone soft. It came as a shock then, to wake one morning with his lower stomach coiled tight and his length hard between his legs. The sun was only just rising - Will had yet to close the curtains for fear of opening them to find the planks inexplicably back in place – Hannibal wouldn’t bring him breakfast for another hour at least. He made his way awkwardly to the bathroom, trying to ignore his discomfort, and set the shower to a comfortable heat. The novelty of washing when he wanted, sometimes twice a day, had not worn off. When he’d used up his toiletries in an impossibly short time, Hannibal had merely replaced them without comment. He washed, avoiding the space between his legs for as long as he could bare, but when he was clean and nothing had changed he realised something would have to be done about it. Hannibal touched him often, possessively, sometimes painfully, but never sexually. Still, the idea that he might be found _asking for it,_ that Hannibal might exploit the way his body had betrayed him, chilled him and he set the shower a little warmer and began touching himself to put an end to the vulnerability.

He went slowly, eyes scrunched shut. It was perfunctory; slow strokes, a steady pace. Mind blank until it wasn’t. When the first cruel face twisted its way into in thoughts, Will flinched back into the hard tile and almost slipped. His hand jolted away, and he peered down with a grimace, to find that it hadn’t been enough to scare him soft. He cleared the condensation fogging the glass with a stilted hand and glanced out at the bathroom door. Still shut. Gritting his teeth, he touched himself again, exhaling shakily through his nose and then sliding down the wall when the feeling and the fear took his feet out from under him. He quickened his pace, toes curling, and it didn’t feel good or bad, just intense. Another remembered face, and rough hands this time, and Will let out a hoarse and frustrated sound and tried to work through it. The memory became too vivid, and Will’s eyes shot open with the sudden sense that he wasn’t alone. He was. The door was still closed. He ran his hands over his face, ducking his head under the water and grimaced. Still stubbornly hard, and starting to hurt now, and Will couldn’t make it better without being taken back to that dank basement and the men who had visited him there.

He reached up and turned the shower cold, jerking under the biting water and gasping for breath. He flung his head back, scrunched his face up, and took the brunt of it between his legs. It was worse this way, he realised too late, the pain brought back vile memories, more vivid, until he could feel more phantom hands on him, hear the filthy things they said to him. With a groan he leant forward and then brought his head back hard against the wall. The pain was perfect in that it was blinding and distracting and chased the haunting hands away. He brought it back again, with a sob this time, and felt hot blood trickling down his back. He slumped forward and looked past his soft cock to see pink water swirling around the drain. His sight was swimming now, limbs aching under the ice-cold flow, and Will reached up to shut the water off but missed and slipped back down. He wrapped his arms around himself, choking back tears and soon he felt numb as the pink swirl turned red and his vision started to fade.

When someone entered, Will was nearly unconscious but as the shower door slid open and his imposing silhouette came into view, Will found enough energy to shield himself and yell out in protest. When the water stopped running and hands slipped under each arm to pull him from his wet heap, he twisted viciously and bit down until skin gave way under his teeth and his mouth flooded with warm copper. Whoever had him stiffened but otherwise seemed unphased and he was carried from the bathroom and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed.

“No no no-“ he hissed, over and over as he scurried back and became tangled in the bedsheets. “No no no no no”

He heard his name, distant and stern, but his head hurt and his limbs were heavy and he was so confused. The only salient fact he could grasp hold of was that he was naked with a predator circling the bed and quickly closing the space between them.

“I missed you,” he forced himself to whisper, following his usual script. “just hold me for a bit.” But when he reached out with shaking arms both his wrists were gathered in one strong hand and his chin was grasped hard and his face tilted up into the light. He heard his name again, and a string of other words he couldn’t make sense of, and when he stared blankly ahead a hand came down hard across his face. By the time he came back to himself, Hannibal was already walking away from him. Will balled himself up as his captor returned with a towel and draped it around him, pulling his damp bedsheets up to cover his dignity.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his tone level yet severe, and waited for Will to do so before continuing. “I may hurt you, Will but not like that. _Never_ like that.”

It was said with such ferocious honesty that Will found himself repeating it back to him.

“Never like that,” he whispered, pulling the towel tighter.

Hannibal retrieved his medical bag to see to the head wound. He brought him extra blankets and hot, sweet porridge and Will hated him for it. It had been enough, the distraction that came with learning new rules, reading a new captor, but now it came more easily which left room for his trauma to catch up with him. When Hannibal finally left for work, Will turned away from the window and willed himself to sleep.

ꭥ

Franklyn left, snivelling and with a look over his shoulder that begged for comfort his psychiatrist was unwilling to provide. Hannibal closed the door behind his patient and locked it, making his way across the dark opulence of his office to sit at his desk. It was an ostentatious space; cast always in the half-light of antique lamps. A mezzanine supported by sharp, angular arches gave one the impression of standing at the centre of a toothed maw with dark, towering bookcases frowning down from above. With animal skulls in resin, and the longest walls painted the colour of rich, dark blood, Hannibal marvelled at the fact that no one had yet guessed at his violent proclivities.

The second drawer down had a false bottom and tucked away beneath an array of innocuous stationary were the photos of Will. Hannibal spread them across the mahogany desk, a collage of despairing debauchery, gathering up the pictures in which Will was not alone. With cool detachment, he tucked the others away in their hiding place and retrieved his tablet. He had already deduced that, at some point early into Will’s captivity – though not early enough to evoke suspicion – his abductor had relocated to Delaware. He took a moment to appreciate the twist of fate that brought the discourteous mechanic to cross his path. If his headlight had not failed two hours from home, and he had not been subject to the repairman’s atrocious customer service, Will would never have become his houseguest. Narrowing the search to a 50 mile radius could only help so much, and with no names to hand, Hannibal feared he would have to search through a plethora of bearded, grease-stained candids to find his next victim. After perhaps twenty minutes he found the mechanic’s Facebook profile, which had recently taken on the role of a virtual vigil of sorts. The previous, antemortem posts consisted largely of vulgarities and circulated jokes that lacked satire and wit. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to identify two of the vile men amongst the comments. Poor privacy settings and half-witted profile pictures flaunting licence plates and apartment numbers gave Hannibal an excellent starting point.

He made note of the names and details he had gathered in his usual, elegant scrawl and tucked them into his pocket. Will could confirm their involvement, and then nothing would stop Hannibal from chipping away at him until his righteous, vengeful potential came to light. One day soon, they would kill together – basking in arterial spray. Hannibal sighed, content with the image of Will striped in sanguine. He was aware that his feelings for the man were quickly becoming obsessive and he made the conscious decision to indulge in them; always the hedonist. Hannibal refused to acknowledge it as concern; still more or less certain that he could snuff Will out if he needed to.

When he returned home in the evening, it seemed that Will was set on snuffing _himself_ out. Curled beneath layers of dark blue sheets and staring blankly at the wall, Will made no attempt to acknowledge Hannibal’s presence – even when he crouched beside the bed on the balls of his feet to meet his eyes. The porridge had been left to harden and even Will’s most recent read lay undisturbed beneath the bowl. Hannibal straightened to standing and observed him for a while, hoping his silent presence would perturb Will into moving. When it had no effect, he took a quick inventory of the room to be sure Will hadn’t found a way to hurt himself and then left to start dinner, leaving the bedroom door open wide. If food and company were not enough to stir Will from his despondency, then maybe an opportunity to escape, one that Hannibal had ensured was futile, would do the job.

Having recently run out of his choice meat, he had opted for a baked Dijon salmon. As he diced the pecans and parsley and folded them into a sweet honey mustard sauce, his attention remained dedicated to his periphery. Any moment, he was sure he would see a flash of curls dart past the egress. As he slid the fillets from the oven though, Will had yet to make an appearance and Hannibal found his appetite had been compromised.

“Will,” he said, upon returning to his room, “come, join me for dinner.”

_No response._

To ensure his guest had not slipped into a mild form of catatonia, Hannibal stepped forward and reached for his throat. When Will flinched back, Hannibal smiled.

“Ah, Will,” He said pleasantly, as if just now seeing him for the first time, “join me for dinner.”

Will mumbled something that may have been _‘not hungry’_ and attempted to pull the blankets up to his chin. He was stiff and sluggish and so it was easy enough for Hannibal to snatch them from his hand and fling them to the bottom of the bed. Will was still wrapped in the towel as Hannibal had left him. He curled tighter but otherwise remained unmoved. Hannibal gathered fresh pyjamas from the chest of drawers, sensing that anything more formal would be a losing battle. Will had been trapped in a traumatic past event when Hannibal found him that morning. It hadn’t surprised him and, sure that he was safe in his room, Hannibal had left him to gather himself before his return. Now though, Will’s withdrawal and lethargy added credence to a diagnosis Hannibal had been anticipating for some time. When he held the pyjamas out to Will, his only reaction was to turn to face the opposite side of the room. Rude and reckless and also symptomatic.

“Will, I suspect you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.” Hannibal stated, with a level of confidence that came with year of psychiatric experience.

“ _Post_ -trauma suggests the hard parts over,” came Will’s quiet reply, and his voice held no inflection. 

“It would be fair to suggest that your trauma has been reduced,” Hannibal replied, pulling the chair over and placing it firmly in Will’s line of sight before sitting. “This is a somewhat unavoidable outcome to your previous living situation.”

“ _Living situation_ ,” Will said, as hollow as before but this time with a flash of that beautiful anger that Hannibal hungered for.

“Your mind is agonizing, which is all the more reason to care for your body,” Hannibal looked pointedly at the untouched porridge, “so that your mind has something to return to when it’s healed.”

There was a stretch of silence then, that held the potential to turn into a number of things; a vicious attack; self-harm and wracking sobs; another flashback to send Will into a frenzied attempt at self-defence. The words Will chose, like seven sharp barbs, were far more painful than any of these scenarios.

“I don’t want to return to you,” Will whispered, and the words were drenched in misery. 

Hannibal snuffed the part of him that ached to respond with brutality.

“You will,” he said, instead.


	11. Ambedo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambedo: a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—briefly soaking in the experience of being alive, an act that is done purely for its own sake.

Nightmares followed.

Wretched motifs that had Will thrashing in bed and waking in a pool of sweat. Hannibal tried beta-blockers and lavender oil, when given the choice Will ardently refused sedatives, but the night terrors proved insurmountable. In the end, all he could do was provide Will with extra towels and sit listening silently from his own room until the muffled sound of screaming petered out. What sleep Will missed at night he made up for during the day but even while awake, Hannibal suspected he wasn’t entirely present. Gone was the drive to see and understand, gone were the titillating, taboo-driven conversations Hannibal had spent his workdays looking forward to. The notion of sharing his recent findings with Will and having him join in the retribution seemed preposterous now; with Will startling at the smallest of sounds. Hannibal wanted to kill him. He wanted to be free of his failed project, but instead found himself doing everything he could to fix Will. He got him to eat with threats of feeding tubes and restraints and got him to sleep by reading to him in hushed tones. He began walking noisily up the stairs, to alert Will to his presence before he reached his door, even though it went against the habits he had trained into himself.

Will ate as little as he could get away with and, Hannibal suspected, often pretended to sleep so he would be left alone. Each time Hannibal opened the curtains before work, he returned to find them closed and Will facing away as if the outside world made his stomach turn. There was nothing to reward, and Hannibal was loathe to sway from his planned conditioning, but there came a point that it seemed Will’s suffering would perpetualise. One morning, just before sunrise and just after the sounds of Will’s terror had faded from the halls of the house, Hannibal collected Will from his room. He had him don a thick robe and lead him, with a tight grip around his wrist, down the stairs and out into the garden. As the doors swung open, Will froze. The fact he suspected danger or a cruel game was writ clear as day across his face, though mostly he looked tired and distinctly pained. To anchor him to the reality of the situation, Hannibal laid out his terms.

“We’re going to sit quietly as the sun rises,” he said and then, injecting every word with menace, added; “as long as we ensure that no one sees or hears us, nothing bad will happen.”

It took several sharp tugs to force Will over the threshold. He curled his bare toes against the cool patio slabs and then stepped tentatively out onto the grass. It was cold but not dewy, and a slither of sunlight was peeking over the horizon to warm them. Hannibal’s house was detached, with several metres between himself and the neighbours on either side. Vibrant red and green trellises blocked them from view.

There was a moment of serenity, in which Will lifted his face to the sky and the pain seemed to drain from him entirely. The furrow of his brow turned smooth and the firm line of his lips went lax. Then, quite suddenly, he wrenched his wrist free of Hannibal’s grip and crumpled to the floor, digging desperate fingers into the soil and taking long, stuttering breaths. Utterly lost in himself, he pulled fistfuls of grass from the ground and raised them to his nose. His tears came quietly and fell until the sun had fully risen above them.

“You have to decide you want to get better,” Hannibal told him, once Will had composed himself and Hannibal had guided him to sit beneath the rusted leaves of the Virginia creepers.

Will was starkly present for the first time in weeks; reaching out to connect with every shred of nature he could. He plucked a crisp, brown leaf from among the blades of grass and held it so gently in his hands that it didn’t so much as crinkle.

“I don’t think our definitions of _better_ are the same,” he said softly, running his fingers over the leaf’s sheer surface, tracing the striking pattern of its veins.

The was no ire in his tone. Hannibal knew that, despite Will’s mental anguish, he was deeply grateful for the mercy of unfiltered sunlight and fresh air. Will’s fatigue was just as responsible for his complacency however, the bags beneath his eyes were the same shade as the perished leaf in his hand.

“When I think of you better, Will, you are spirited and strikingly comfortable in your own skin,” Hannibal said, keeping other apt adjectives like _avenging_ and _blood-soaked_ to himself.

Will glanced in his direction, with something subtle and sad behind his eyes, and Hannibal felt his back straighten.

“You think of me like that?” He asked, swapping the leaf delicately into his other hand, “happy?”.

“Yes,” he replied. He imagined Will in every state; happy, despondent, furious, terrified, lustful and coy.

“Then let me go,” Will said, without any real ambition, just futile pining.

Hannibal smiled at him, comfortable in the morning sun and confident that Will’s depletion would keep him quiet and contained.

“I will never let you go” he promised.

Will’s fist closed around the leaf and he let parched fragments flutter from between his fingers to fall at his feet. He nodded, as if he had always known that would be the case; had somehow always known he belonged here, to Hannibal. Several drops of rain landed around them, and Hannibal noted the way that Will deflated, as if the two of them were the type of unexceptional people that hid from water, as if they were among the throngs of people that would cut their own plans short at the will of the weather.

“You said _when my mind heals_ I’d need somewhere to return to _,”_ Will reminded him, unfurling a little now that it was evident Hannibal planned to stay put. “Things have happened,” he continued quietly, “I don’t think it will ever be the same.”

The rain came down more quickly, slanted so that their backs were kept dry by the trellis while their legs withstood most of the downpour. Will stretched his legs out straight, mirroring Hannibal’s elongated posture, and savoured the feel of it on his bare feet.

“Minds heal like skin, Will,” Hannibal said, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

 _Never like that,_ Will reminded himself when he felt a small surge of panic swell beneath his ribs. Hannibal bore a jagged, white scar on his chest.

“I sustained this as a child,” he explained, raindrops landing just above the scar, parting around the raised skin and falling in rivulets down his stomach. “It’s long healed, but it’s not the same.”

He wondered what Will thought of the mark. It was a large and ugly thing for a child to have endured.

“I’m healed, but I’m changed,” he reiterated, leaving his shirt halves to hang open.

“You want to change me?” Will asked, running his eyes over the scar, pondering it.

Hannibal leant back to give him a better view.

“You’ve already been changed, Will. I merely want to guide you into the best version of yourself.”

Will appeared to give it some thought. He ran his fingers through the damp grass; hands not quite shaking, not quite steady. Many of Will’s movements came from him in twitches and nervous tics. He was a man containing a great depth of impetus yet his autonomy had been taken. When something strong was bent into submission that way, it was only so long before a backlog of ire and intent broke through. Will would be Hannibal’s magnum opus.

“How will you do it?” Will asked anxiously, and it pleased Hannibal to see how much Will needed him; the extent to which he ached for his help.

“Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing,” Hannibal supplied quickly, having already given the matter a considerable amount of thought.

He watched Will turn the words over in his head, trying to make sense of them.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” he added, “you have already made huge strides today.”

ꭥ

It wasn’t until Will had dried himself off and dressed, that the enormity of what had just happened began to sink in. He’d been _outside._ It felt surreal, now that it was in the past. He rushed to the window and flung the curtains back. Sure enough, over by the trellis, the grass was still flattened where he and Hannibal had sat. He pressed his forehead to the glass and watched the flowers bow under the weight of the rain. The same black smog that had kept him bedridden for weeks still overwhelmed him, but now he could peer through its tendrils and see something, undefined but lighter, in the distance. He was closer to escape than he had ever been before. He thought of Hannibal’s scar and wondered if he had had to escape something in his past, if that would make him more difficult to outsmart.

Hannibal would have made a strange child, he thought, looking out at the field beyond the garden and imagining him there. He wouldn’t run or squeal with delight like the others his age, would probably stand impossibly still and observe the other children with a curiosity that verged on disdain. He would have had lighter hair, softer features, but still an air about him that didn’t fit comfortably into his own shell. Back too straight, movement too measured. Will wondered if the adults around him were scared of him, or if they had pitied the fact that he was old beyond his years. When Will felt his own strange stirring of sorrow and protectiveness for the imaginary boy, he shook his head to clear it.

He forced himself to acknowledge that Hannibal had likely always been cruel and manipulative at his core. Psychopathic, not lonely and at odds with himself. He had probably pinned live butterflies to cork, caught rabbits in traps and pulled them apart to see how they worked on the inside. But what child wasn’t curious about the world around them? Without guidance from the adults in their life, how did a child learn and internalise the boundaries their society put in place? It was with sudden clarity that Will realised Hannibal had been orphaned at a young age, but that the loss of his sister had been even more harrowing. _Defining_.

He heard Hannibal ascending the stairs then, the measured thump of socked feet, and his deliberate effort to announce himself made Will think of that little, quiet boy again and how he had undoubtedly been snuck up on in some of his most vulnerable moments. Will sat on the edge of his bed and gratefully accepted the rich coffee Hannibal offered him. His captor pulled the chair away from the desk to sit opposite him to drink his own.

“What were you like as a child?” He asked, comfortable in the knowledge that Hannibal would take his interest as a compliment where his last captor would have become aggravated by the inquiry.

Hannibal looked off slightly to his left, picturing himself in the same way Will had pictured him out in the field.

“Quiet,” he said, after a moment and Will nodded. “There was a long stretch of time in which I didn’t speak a word.”

Will assumed that there would have been no one to listen if he had.

“What were you like?” Hannibal asked then, eyes snapping back to Will. “As a young boy?”

Will huffed and shifted on the bed.

“Terrified, mostly,” he admitted. “I saw things in parents and teachers that other children couldn’t detect.”

Hannibal mirrored Will’s nod and it struck Will that they had both been correct in their assumptions of the other.

“Are you aware you have an empathy disorder, Will?”

Many had tried to diagnose him as a child, but no label ever matched up to his idiosyncrasies. Perhaps _empathy disorder_ was his glass slipper. He hadn’t heard that one before, but it felt apt.

“I’m aware I have something wrong with me, I didn’t know it had a name.” Will replied, taking a large mouthful of coffee and swallowing it stiffly.

“It’s a gross injustice that you’ve been made to think of it as a flaw. It’s a gift. It’s what kept you alive until I got to you.” Hannibal raised his mug to his face and closed his eyes as he inhaled. He made everything look like an indulgence.

“It won’t be much help to me now then, my last captor wasn’t as observant as you. He wasn’t aware of anything beyond his own needs.” Will’s voice often shook when he spoke of the time before. He wondered if that was something Hannibal could fix. He wondered if Hannibal was really planning to fix him at all.

“I am as aware of your scrutiny as you are of my conditioning.” Hannibal said, eyes still closed. A swirl of steam rose and then dispersed before him. “It seems fair. Symbiotic, even.”

Will hummed. Nothing seemed fair. He could acknowledge though, that his suffering had been lessened and that Hannibal was to thank for it.

“I think we would have been fast friends as children,” Hannibal said, suddenly opening his eyes. “You, lingering at the edge of the playground, eyes wide and watching. I’d have been unable to resist you and where my composure would have unsettled the other children, it would have come as a relief to you.” 

“Maybe,” Will allowed, because he had been so horribly lonely as a child.

They finished the rest of their drinks in silence and though Will could not describe it as comfortable, he did note that he was not wracked with the intense stress he had come to accept as his norm.

“I’ve enjoyed our morning together,” Hannibal said, as he stood and collected the empty mugs to leave. “I’d like to offer you something in return for your company.”

“I haven’t finished this book, yet,” Will said, though Hannibal was well aware since he had been the one reading it to him.

“Not another book then,” he said gracefully, “some music, perhaps?”

“What music do you have?” Will asked, cautious that he shouldn’t be too hopeful, since it would most likely be the same, sharp classical pieces Hannibal sometimes played over dinner.

“Whatever you like, Will. We can choose it together and you can keep it on an iPod in your room.”

Will thought of the music he had listened to alone in his dorm, Leonard Cohen and Simon and Garfunkel and other artists that painted beautiful, melancholy pictures so that Will didn’t have to paint them himself.

“Thank you,” he said, earnestly, as he imagined how comforting it would be to hear a voice other than his own during the long hours Hannibal spent away from him.

It didn’t surprise him at all, that Hannibal had already purchased the iPod. He likely had Will’s conditioning laid out like an action plan. He let Will join him in his study, two leather armchairs pulled close so that Will could see, but not reach, Hannibal’s tablet. When Will asked him to add _Miserere mei, Deus_ to the list, Hannibal hummed appreciatively.

“Mozart transcribed it from memory when he was fourteen,” Will said, in explanation. It was a tidbit from his middle school music teacher that had lodged itself in his memory; holding some unexplainable significance to his thirteen year old self. 

“Hmm, in the Sistine Chapel and at risk of excommunication.” Hannibal agreed, looking up at Will. “Allegri ensured his composition was inaccessible on paper, but no one could take jurisdiction over the boy’s mind.”

“You’d probably try,” Will said, before he could stop himself.

Hannibal laughed quietly, lips curling in fondness.

“I have my own cognitive wonder,” he said, patting Will’s knee, “and he leaves little to be desired.”


	12. Anodyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anodyne: Capable of soothing or eliminating pain.

_Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing,_ happened to consist largely of watching Hannibal cook, and Will began to wonder if it were a real psychiatric technique at all. He sat at the kitchen island watching his captor’s deft hands replicate the same high-plating again and again. A perfect petal shaped smear of puree and a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds on top. Every single plate, the same design. Smear, sprinkle and switch plates. Smear, sprinkle, switch. He peered up at Hannibal’s face to see if he had made himself dizzy yet. He was stood at the opposite side of the island in a white waist apron with a nonchalant expression, as though he were working from muscle memory alone.

“Eyes on my hands, Will.” Hannibal reminded him, without looking up, “and you know where your mind should be.”

Will sighed, began tracking Hannibal’s hands, and thought of the night he was taken.

He’d been exhausted, with assignments piling up and his father’s steep decline in health, and the double shift at the service station had been enough to sap the last of his energy out of him. He’d heard the footsteps behind him, had even seen the mechanic exit the garage in his peripheral, but Will thought nothing of the large man leaving work at the same time as himself. It was already dark and he still had the long bus journey to his father’s house before him. He’d need to make sure his old man ate and washed and, if he was having a particularly bad day, he would have to help him into bed. All of this and then the journey back to his dorm where his desk was waiting, laden with unfinished work. He always failed to get anything done with the hissing of his father’s respirator in the next room. The accumulation of all that pressure had distracted Will from reading people properly, from even bothering to try. Eye contact became even more difficult the more exhausted he was. The mechanic had been polite on the few occasions he’d had reason to speak to Will over the counter. More than once, he’d even made him laugh. The footsteps picked up speed behind him and by the time Will had turned a strong, oil stained hand was reaching up cover his mouth. He struggled for a few seconds in blind panic, every breath scalding his throat like he was inhaling acid. His eyes watered, he tried to buck free, tried to claw at the strong arm around his chest. It was crushing him; his vision was fading…

Smear, sprinkle, switch. Smear sprinkle, switch.

“Breathe, Will,” Hannibal said, voice void of emotion. “Whatever you’re experiencing is in the past and the man responsible is dead.” He flicked is eyes up quickly to assess Will’s state and, seemingly satisfied, returned to his work. “Eyes on my hands, remember the breathing exercises we practiced.”

Smear, sprinkle switch. Smear, sprinkle, switch.

He woke up in the car, hogtied and with a hessian sack over his head. He attempted to keep track of the left and right turns, but they had already been travelling for an undetermined amount of time and deep down he knew it would make no difference. He’d have called out to the mechanic, he knew his name, knew he liked Heineken and classic rock, but the darkness and stench of exhaust fumes told him he was in the trunk. He imagined the car being pushed into the bayou, tied and helpless as the black water poured in like tar and choked him. He imagined being taken out into the woods, tied to a thick tree trunk and doused in petrol. Imagined the sound of his skin crackling as it curled, imagined the nauseating smell of his own body roasting with him in it. With every once of will power he possessed, he forced himself to view his predicament as an objective party, with the knowledge he had gained while studying criminology. He had already missed the best opportunity to escape, on his way to the bus stop, out in the open. Struggling now would put him at a greater disadvantage. He’d tire too easily, rub his wrists raw trying to escape his bindings only to anger the mechanic and exhaust himself. He lay still and waited.

Smear, sprinkle, switch. Smear, sprinkle, done.

“Are we finished?” Will asked, hopefully. His brow was beading with sweat and he had focussed so attentively on Hannibal’s hands that he felt confident he knew them better than his own; each neatly trimmed nail and the deep ridge of a vein that forked into two below the knuckles.

“With that memory perhaps,” Hannibal allowed, “and certainly with these plates.”

He untied the apron with one swift tug and folded it neatly over the stool next to Will’s.

“How difficult did you find it?”

“It was – hard,” Will admitted, swallowing the lump in his throat and letting out a shaky exhale.

Hannibal hummed.

“Then we’ll revisit it again in a moment. When I start preparing the pastries.”

“Again?” Will asked, having half hoped it was behind him. That he was fixed.

Hannibal poured them both a mug of fragrant tea and stood behind Will, with his hand resting gently on his shoulder.

“When you can watch me and think about that night with a level of cool detachment, then we’ll be finished.”

Will felt his fingers tighten around his teacup.

“How can I?” He ground out, running his warmed hands down the sweat beaded planes of face. “I can still taste the chloroform, I can still remember the claustrophobic terror that comes with waking up in the trunk of a car!”

Hannibal came to sit next to him, raising his brow at the peek he had been given into Will’s prior life. The audacity of it made Will want to strike out. Hannibal was _indulging_ in his trauma.

“You can do this, Will, because you are intelligent enough to acknowledge that the putrid little man that did these things to you can hardly rise from the dead and do them again.”

Will felt every sinew in his body pull taut; a thousand bowstrings set to rain fire on Hannibal’s pretentious, pristine kitchen. The mechanic may have been dead, but Will was hardly free from the types of danger he had devised. Like a fly, having escaped the slimy grasp of a lumbering frog, only to become entangled in the more intricate trappings of a spider’s web.

“But _you_ can.” He spat, “For all I know you already did. He drugged me and stuffed me into his trunk and you did too!” On the last word, his voice having raised to a frantic decimal, he picked up his teacup and threw it across the room. It hit the far wall and shattered, cascading down to make a gleaming mess of the kitchen floor.

Will sat frozen, certain that any minute Hannibal would throw him from his stool and force him to crawl through his mess; shards of porcelain perforating his hands and knees. He didn’t apologise. He wasn’t sorry. Hannibal had tracked the teacup and now sat facing the wall where it had been destroyed with a contemplative expression.

“I put you on the backseat,” he said after a moment. His voice was calm, but it pierced the silence and made Will flinch regardless. “Unbound and sleeping peacefully.”

Will thought back; he had been naked and reeking of his own and others’ filth. He knew without asking that Hannibal’s car was upholstered with some luxurious fabric that likely cost more on it’s own than any vehicle Will had ever sat in.

“But you did drug me,” Will reminded him, lifting a hand to the crook of his arm, remembering the way he had offered it out; expecting death.

“Indeed. I put my own interests above all else, Will. I put them above you and that will never change.”

It was honesty, at least, and Will still wasn’t crawling through the shards on the floor. He waited for Hannibal to dictate what would happen next, but he seemed happy to sip his tea in silence and watch the shattered remains of the teacup as if they might put themselves back together again. Unable to bear the silence, Will found something to say.

“What’s all this for?” He nodded towards the neat rows of identically decorated plates.

“I was hoping you would broach the topic as there is something we need to discuss.” Hannibal replied, placing his drink down and swivelling gracefully to face him. “Tomorrow, I am hosting a dinner party.”

Will balked.

“H- _here_?” He asked, incredulously, certain he was misunderstanding. It beggared belief that someone would willingly bring people to their home when they had a captive upstairs and a dwindling supply of human flesh in the basement. It took a level of arrogance that Will had put past even Hannibal.

“I was planning to drug you,” Hannibal said, ignoring his question, “but since you’ve shown your distaste for that option already today, I will offer you another.”

His captor’s words hardly registered.

“Are they…like you?” Will asked. He pictured the long dining table filled by the upper-class, his own body cooked to perfection at the centre, with some pretentious fruit in his mouth in place of an apple.

“Cannibals?” Hannibal asked, with a smile that was entirely unrepentant. “Not knowingly. Not like you.”

Will felt himself frown. He now rarely saw the need to guard his expressions as much as he once had. Hannibal seemed to want the confused furrow of his brow and the stubborn twist of his lips every bit as much as he desired his pretty tears and placating smiles.

“What’s my other option?” Will asked, dreading the answer.

“You will be locked in your room, as usual, but tied to the bed. If you try to alert my guests to your presence then I will open your bedroom door and let you listen, unable to help, as I kill each and every one of them.”

“ _Ah_.”

Hannibal stood then and began moving the plates from the island to the refrigerator. Will gazed at the knife block; six strong, steel handles protruding from varnished wood. It shouldn’t be that hard, not really, to cross the kitchen and take hold of one while Hannibal’s back was turned. Without thinking much beyond that, he placed one foot to the floor and moved to stand.

“Going for a stroll?” Hannibal asked, turning around the collect the next plate.

If anyone had walked in on them at that moment, and seen the seemingly domestic scene unfolding, they would have assumed Hannibal was asking out of polite curiosity. The threat was buried behind Hannibal’s calm façade, not really there at all unless Will needed it to be.

Will swallowed and pulled his foot back.

“I thought I should clean up the mess,” he lied, waving a dismissive hand towards the sharp pieces of porcelain and the puddle of tea on the floor.

“You’re my guest, Will,” Hannibal replied coolly, “I’ll take care of it.”

Will nodded and sunk back onto his stool. Silently, he convinced himself that he would have done it, if he could have. 

ꭥ

Hannibal had Will revisit the memory as he shaped the croustades; pleased with his own ability to bring the psychiatric and culinary arts together so beautifully. The repetitive motion would ground Will, would allow him to mentally list the events of his abduction without the emotions that were usually associated. Hannibal was actively de-triggering Will - saving him from pointless, blind panic – and would happily reap the rewards of his gratitude once he had succeeded. He spooned a homemade reduction onto a neat square of pastry and then gathered two corners between his fingers, pinching to seal them in a neat point and moving to replicate the action on the opposite corners. Will’s eyes followed his hands, starting to breathe more quickly before employing the technique Hannibal had shown him, and getting himself under control.

Having made croustades a thousand times before, Hannibal could let his hands work mindlessly and keep his eyes on Will. His guest was oblivious, his own glued to Hannibal’s hands. Hannibal had given himself the gift of experiencing Will’s memories vicariously, through emotion alone. Will projected weariness at first, and then a flicker of fright before composing himself. Several times his face crumpled with a lovely shade of hopelessness and finally settled into something that leant towards patience and endurance.

“Again,” Hannibal said, only halfway through his preparations when Will exhaled and raised his eyes.

He watched the array of emotions cross Will’s face again but muted this time. And then again, but nearly imperceptible. 

“Would you like to try one?” Hannibal asked, when Will blinked himself out of his fourth – seemingly emotionless – recollection. “These will be refrigerated until tomorrow, but I can bake two of them now and we can take them to the study.”

Will nodded tiredly.

“Why the study?” he asked.

“There’s nothing else to prepare for now, but you still have three years of trauma to process,” he placed two neat little pastries onto a baking tray and slid them into the oven. “and I have plenty of pencils to sharpen.”


	13. Imbroglio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imbroglio : An altercation or complicated situation.

Alana had wanted something private, intimate, and Hannibal had deliberately misread her cues and invited half of the physiatrists in his social circle. _To build bridges,_ he had offered by way of explanation. The morning of his dinner party, Hannibal had Will work through the first days of his captivity while watching him roll his ties in tight coils and stash them away in a partitioned drawer. Will’s panic was palpable, atrocious things had happened to break him at the start. Hannibal hoped Will wouldn’t form a negative association with ties, as he was considering introducing them into his wardrobe.

“What time are your guests coming?” Will asked, when they were done.

He was curled, tighter than the rows of ties, in the armchair near Hannibal’s wardrobe.

“I shouldn’t need to restrain you until six,” Hannibal replied, accurately reading between the lines. He held a blazer with paisley patterned notch lapels up against himself, appraising his appearance in an antique floor mirror and then looked past himself - to Will’s reflection.

Will gave a stilted nod and seemed to shrink in size.

“Are you going to gag me?” He asked, barely above a whisper.

“Will I have to?” Hannibal asked, laying his chosen attire out flat on his bed. He had purchased a ball gag, just in case.

Will gave him an earnest if stilted shake of his head.

“Wonderful,” Hannibal said, motioning for Will to follow him.

He was always easiest to handle after one of their EMDR sessions; exhausted from the mental strain of the memories and equally lax from the relief that came with overcoming the emotional hold they had over him. Hannibal steered him easily to the dining room so they could enjoy a light lunch of anfu ham and camembert on a bed of peppered kale. He had begun allowing Will to eat with a knife and fork, as a show of trust. A reckless part of him hoped Will would try something, so he’d have reason to go back on his leniency and feed him morsels from between his fingers for the rest of his days. A smaller, optimistic part of him hoped that one day Will would _choose_ to taste his cooking that way. Perhaps he would lean across the table or close his lips around Hannibal’s fingers to sample his work as he cooked. Will, oblivious to Hannibal’s train of thought, was taking his first bite of camembert and humming appreciatively when the doorbell rang.

Both men froze, eyes meeting over the table. Will twisted his head in the direction of the door and then looked back at Hannibal from the corner of his eye. His fork was still raised, camembert still sitting heavy on his tongue. Hannibal watched him swallow, eyes flicking back to the archway leading to the hall. Just beyond that, stood a single door keeping Will from the rest of the world. An abhorrent sense of urgency flooded Hannibal’s chest; it had been decades since he’d felt anything like it. He reigned it in quickly, certain that he was stronger than Will and would have the benefit of surprise over whomever had so callously decided to disrupt his peaceful Saturday afternoon.

“Let’s look at this objectively, Will,” he murmured, keeping his voice cool and calm, “the person at the door has no idea what they’ve stumbled upon. They’ll be unguarded. I’ll kill them quickly.”

Will’s brow scrunched into something petulant; unwilling to accept the facts for what they were – blinded by hope.

“You, on the other hand,” Hannibal continued, muscles tensing, ready to pounce, “I will take my time with.”

Will was quivering now, a greyhound at the gate, rabbit in sight. Hannibal wondered if he had heard him at all, or if his voice was fading into the ambience of Will’s mind. The bell rang again, and it seemed to shock his captive back to the present moment. He let out a single, distressed sound and turned back to Hannibal with wide eyes.

“Please don’t hurt them,” he breathed, lowering his fork slowly like it was a gun and then raising his hands, palms out.

“That’s in your hands, Will,” Hannibal purred, “Go to your room, close the door, and sit silently on your bed until I come to get you.”

They rose from their chairs with an ironic sort of synchronicity – two sides of the same coin. Hannibal watched Will ascend the stairs and listened for the soft click of his bedroom door closing. He retrieved a knife from the kitchen and then answered the front door to find Alana with her phone in hand.

“Ah, Hannibal, I was just about to call you!”

“My apologies,” he answered, sliding the knife up into his sleeve and straining to hear any sounds from above, “I was upstairs preparing my outfit. You’re more than a little early.”

Alana had the decency to at least look abashed.

“I realised I strong-armed you into dinner,” she laughed, “I thought I should offer to help you with the preparations.”

She tilted her head at Hannibal with a soft, confused smile and Hannibal assumed it was due to his hesitance to invite her in. He had expected the interruption to have been the work of a postman or Jehovah’s witness – no one he’d be obliged to let through the door. Two plates, clearly abandoned mid-meal, sat out on the dining table and Will was loose upstairs. To his credit, he had yet to make a single sound. Hannibal stepped back to let Alana through and guided her swiftly into his study.

“I insist you sit and have a drink first, before we get to work,” he said, with a practiced, charismatic smile. “I was not quite finished upstairs, but I’ll only be a moment. Please, help yourself,” he added, motioning to the minibar behind his desk.

It was not like him, to expect a guest to get their own drink, and he hoped Alana wouldn’t dwell on it as he turned to collect the plates from the dining room, sliding the knife carefully from his sleeve and quickly placing everything out of sight. Will was sitting as asked when he reached him, and Hannibal felt some of his tension leave him. His captive clearly cared more for the lives of others than he did for himself. He seemed conflicted though, wringing his hands in his lap with a discordant countenance. He looked from Hannibal to the restraints in his hands with such animosity that Hannibal thought about killing Alana regardless, just for causing this rift between them. He didn’t speak, couldn’t risk Alana hearing them – even through the closed door and the excessive upholstery – as he locked both of Will’s ankles to the bedframe and then brought him his iPod and book. Before leaving, he gave him a look that wasn’t apologetic, but that he hoped conveyed his regret that their lunch had been cut so short. Will didn’t meet his eyes.

ꭥ

It had been a strange few days, in which Will had often inexplicably forgotten that he was a captive at all. With the luxuries Hannibal allowed him, recently paired with his psychiatric efficacy, Will often felt more like a remanded patient in an upscale mental health clinic, than the prisoner of a depraved cannibal. He supposed that what one considered _normal_ depended largely on what they had been forced to accept as their _norm_. For Will, before Hannibal, normality had come to consist of hunger and thirst and the kind of coldness that gripped a person’s bones and couldn’t be chased out by a hole-ridden blanket. Simple beatings were a blessing compared to the type of violence that was more par for the course. He was under no illusion that Hannibal was a kind or solicitous man, but his idiosyncrasies had led Will to a new normalcy; one with ubiquitous comfort and cleanliness and small, cherished moments of respect.

That was what made Hannibal’s brand of captivity so treacherous. In the years Will spent with the mechanic, he had never once lost sight of the purpose of his acquiescence - escape. At some point, when the suffering had become too much to bear, Will had begun considering that term interchangeable with death, but leaving his prison behind was Will’s sole aspiration. There were times now, when Hannibal brought him a hot drink or allowed him to eat like a human at the table, that Will thanked him in earnest – times where Will found himself engaging in conversation more for the pleasure of company than as a way to elicit things from Hannibal that could later be used against him. It seemed that the fact that Will was aware of his conditioning, didn’t hamper its success.

Now, he sat staring at his shackled ankles with a sense of self loathing so strong he felt the urge to tear his hair out or scratch his own skin off. He’d have done it too, if the noise he might make wouldn’t threaten the life of the unassuming stranger downstairs. So instead he sat in stiff silence and refused himself the comfort of music or fiction. He didn’t deserve those escapes if he weren’t willing to fight for the real thing.

The most troubling part of being under Hannibal’s care, was the fact that it was working. Will could think back to his abduction with such detachment, that his heartrate barely changed. He could picture the first time he was hurt without panic, only a sick twist in his stomach and a dull yearning for the man he had been before that. For all Will knew about his captor – his desire for genuine company and the catharsis he felt in sharing his true self – Will had yet to understand why Hannibal would want to take his fear away. Fear made him submissive and dependent. It made him grateful each time Hannibal showed him a hint of human decency. To take away Will’s fear was to take away a piece of Hannibal’s power. The not knowing was eating Will from the inside out.

Will could hear nothing of the person downstairs; they and Hannibal kept quiet company until the rest of his guests started to filter in. There was the muffled sound of many voices, and at one point the sharp notes of the harpsichord, and – tied to the bed unseen and unheard – Will felt more lonely than he had since he was a child. The consequence of being treated like a human, was the inevitable point at which Will began to consider himself one. Distant voices had meant a reprieve when Will had belonged to the mechanic, now they reminded Will that no one was looking for him. 

For all of these reasons, when Hannibal returned to him that night with a smug look – no doubt from a dinner well received – Will waited to be unchained and then snapped forward and bit him hard on the wrist. Hannibal had been reaching over to stroke a curl from his forehead and the audacity of it forced Will to alter his original plan to wait and then reach out and strangle the life from his captor. It was this flaw that gave Hannibal the chance to backhand him before he could get his fingers around his throat.

Tumbling back and off of the bed, Will spat a mouthful of blood – both Hannibal’s and his own – onto the floor and then lurched to his feet. Hannibal was rounding on him, and he ducked again quickly to miss the swing aimed at his face and darted out from his reach and toward the open door. It all seemed so easy now. A frantic laugh left him in a breath of disbelief as he sprinted down the stairs and made a beeline for the front door. In the time it took him to realise it was locked, Hannibal had caught up and, with a crushing grip at his nape, had sent him barrelling back down the hall. He recovered himself quickly and kicked out at the man’s ankles as he approached. Hannibal came down on top of him and they scrabbled like that for a few seconds before his captor’s forearm was pressing down hard on his neck. It felt like his trachea was imploding but the surge of adrenaline had given Will a surreal sort of clear-headedness. Instead of clawing at Hannibal arms, like his instincts urged him to, he brought his knees up to his chest and used the leverage he gained by kicking out at Hannibal with both legs to twist out from under him and run to the nearest doorway – the dining room. 

Hannibal stalked him in, lip twisting in a vicious snarl when Will grabbed the nearest plate and sent it hurtling past his head. His captor had made himself huge, with tensed muscles and a wide stance, and Will felt his sudden burst of bravery leaving him as he was backed up against the locked double doors leading out into the garden. He grabbed a chair and held it out between them, legs jabbing out at Hannibal like a spiked shield. The older man had the conviction of a Viking and, instead of avoiding the protruding legs, forced himself into them side-on so that Will was effectively pinned in place. They were both panting, bodies blooming with fresh aches from their fight – though, when their eyes met, it was clear that neither was done.

With an outraged cry, Will threw his full weight into one side of the chair which sent Hannibal off to the left. As he tried to regain his footing, Will flung himself into Hannibal’s side, taking the wind from both of them and sending Hannibal to the floor again. Before Will could bolt though, a strong hand gripped his ankle and pulled him down. With a loud crack, Will’s head fell back against the hardwood floor and his vision started to swim. He cussed quietly when he tried to right himself and instead flopped back uselessly to the floor. Hannibal took the opportunity to catch his breath, sliding back along the floor to sit himself upright against the wall.

“Are you done, Will?” He asked, through gritted, blood-stained teeth.

“No,” Will hissed, lips equally red, though he made no attempt to move.

Hannibal huffed and there was mirth to it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and doubled over a little, gripping his side.

“I might be,” he said, hoarsely, taking several long, measured breaths.

Will started to laugh then, with far more levity than the situation deserved. Briefly, he acknowledged that he felt nauseated, and manged to roll himself onto his side with a groan, body still wracked with painful laughter. Hannibal was smiling at him through dishevelled hair, though the furrow of his brow spoke to a similar discomfort.

“I hate you,” Will mumbled, reaching up to rub his sore throat, sure that the purpling imprint of Hannibal’s arm was already blooming there.

“I’d wager,” Hannibal said, between raucous breaths, “not as much as you think you should.”

And the truth of that knocked the laughter out of Will so that they were left there with only the strained rattle of their breathing and the heat of their eyes on one another. He had left his captor in a bloody, aching mess. Beneath all of his own physical pain, Will felt absolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is more or less the halfway point. There's about to be a fairly significant shift in their relationship, and Dark!Will is going to make his debut. Thanks to everyone that's made it this far, and I hope you all enjoy the direction this fic is about to take.


	14. Quatervois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quatervois – a critical decision or turning point in one’s life.

“Will I be punished now?” Will asked, with a capricious arch of one brow, as he accepted the tumbler of whiskey that Hannibal offered him. His voice carried a pleasant husk from the time Hannibal had spent pressing down on his windpipe. He wasn’t angry at Will; it had been marvellous to catch a glimpse of his potential.

“I believe we sorted things out between ourselves,” He answered, sinking into the armchair beside him.

He considered Will over his drink. His face was scrunched, and the back of his head was bleeding sluggishly, but he looked as though he were imbued with something like relief. Clearly, he had found hurting Hannibal as gratifying as Hannibal had found hurting him in return. They had dragged themselves to the study as soon as they could stand, ignoring their injuries for now as neither had suffered anything fatal. Will took small sips of his drink and kept his eyes on Hannibal like he expected him to change his mind.

“Why are you helping me?” Will asked, after a while, “with the memories, I mean?”

Hannibal worked a crick from his neck before answering.

“As a part of something longer term. As broken men go, you suffer beautifully-”

Will flinched.

“-but I think you can be something more,” Hannibal continued.

“It’s not enough, is it? Eating them?” Will asked, nursing his drink.

“Hmm?” Hannibal replied as he sipped his own.

“You want me to kill with you,” Will surmised. 

Hannibal felt a thrill shoot up his spine at the words. For an aborted escape attempt, things were tipping splendidly in his favour.

“I’ve thought about it, yes,” He replied.

Thought about it, dreamt about it, sketched it, created entire compositions with a murderous Will as his muse. 

“I’m not like you,” Will whispered, rotating his glass and looking down at the amber swirl as he spoke.

Hannibal didn’t let it dishearten him.

“You are,” he replied, “in all of the most important ways.”

He stood then, placing his glass down on the side table between them and crossing over to his desk to retrieve his medical bag.

“Do I kill indiscriminately, Will?” He asked, fishing out some cotton pads and antiseptic.

Will seemed taken aback by the question.

“I…don’t know.” He answered, and Hannibal tutted as he crossed the room and stood behind him to examine his headwound.

“Yes. You. Do.” He said playfully, dabbing at the cut with each word.

Will flinched three times accordingly.

“Not indiscriminately, then,” he said from between gritted teeth, and Hannibal’s touch became softer as he cleaned the rest of the wound.

“You said h-he was rude to you,” Will recalled, shoulders uncoiling now that Hannibal had stopped torturing him with the scorching liquid. “I suppose he was better served as a meal, silent, than he was alive and spitting vulgarities?”

“Indeed,” Hannibal sighed, placidly.

This was the sort of honest domesticity that he had never imagined having and, now that he possessed it, he had to examine the halls of his memory palace carefully; sure that his past would seem bleak and blanched in comparison to his present. He had enjoyed many aspects of his life, had taken pleasure in many ways, but had he ever truly been happy before now? Perhaps, when he and Mischa would spend crisp afternoons looking out over the ebony lake and the fittingly black swans that lived there.

The cut was not serious, the bruising around it was worse. He stemmed the bleeding with a little pressure and then reclaimed his chair.

“I wouldn’t ask you to kill indiscriminately,” Hannibal stated firmly, as if to suggest otherwise would be to do him a grave injustice.

“I’d rather you not ask me to kill at all,” Will said weakly, finishing the rest of his drink in one large gulp and placing the glass down with more force than needed.

Hannibal enjoyed watching him war with himself, but they were both exhausted and smarting from their fight, so he got right to the point. 

“Even if I asked you to kill the men that hurt you?” He purred, and felt like the serpent in Eden, when Will’s breath hitched at the thought of it.

“You’re not a vigilante,” Will stated, with absolute certainty, and Hannibal preened. He would have been grimly disappointed if Will mistook his interest as something akin to seeking justice or righting wrongs.

“No, I wouldn’t stop to help someone I didn’t care about.” He agreed, he’d once watched a man being mugged from the window of his practice, as he sipped his morning coffee, “But I do find myself invested in your vengeance.”

“ _Vengeance_ ,” Will repeated, dragging the word out, tasting it on his tongue.

“If it felt so good to hurt me, Will, imagine the rapture you’d feel hurting them,” he leant back in his chair, spying the time on the grandfather clock.

When Will didn’t respond he sighed and said;

“It’s nearly, midnight. Will you eat something before sleeping? Our lunch was cut short.”

Will mumbled something that sounded like assent and followed him sleepily into the kitchen.

ꭥ

Will’s darkest thoughts had often been the only thing to keep him company. When he had been stripped of power in the real world, his mind was the one place he could still exercise it and he did so with relish. Every hurt caused to him, he repaid threefold.

“How would you find them?” He asked, between mouthfuls of the serving Hannibal had put aside for him that evening.

“Much of the work is already done,” is all he offered in reply.

Will chewed thoughtfully. He imagined the moment they saw his face, saw him healed and dressed and standing over them. Everything they’d done to him would come back to them in that instant; _they’d_ be the ones begging. He’d fantasised about it so often but had never let himself hope that it might become a reality. It was stirring something nefarious in him, luring it to the surface like a shark to a flailing seal.

“Can it be slow?” he asked, trembling.

“It can be whatever you like,” Hannibal said, with a blink.

“My design,” Will whispered, and Hannibal’s lips twitched into that uncanny half-smile that Will had come to recognise as fondness.

There had been a slither of depravity in him, even before. When he had mulled over it, he had assumed it had come from the combined factors of seeing the darkness in others and of it being in his nature, as a child, to emulate. He had never hurt anyone, but the thoughts were sometimes so vivid and intrusive that he began to worry he had. Hannibal had since explained to him that emulation would come far more naturally to someone with an empathy disorder, and not just in childhood. It was a beautiful sort of irony then, that his abusers had picked him of all people; someone that could absorb so easily the worst facets of those around them. They’d drowned him in their presence, and now he’d emerged from it; mirroring their ugliest desires. He shook his head, wincing.

“If I hurt them, doesn’t that mean they’ve won? I’ll be just as bad as they are.” It sounded cliché to his own ears and, before the last word had even left his mouth, Will found it wasn’t a notion he was inclined to give much weight to.

Hannibal smiled at him, leant forward in a way that seemed conspiratorial and murmured in a voice that bordered on seductive; 

“When they’re at your feet, choking on themselves, you can ask them how victorious they feel.”

It was a potent image, and Hannibal’s guttural accent made it seem somehow dignified and depraved in equal measure. Will trembled on his exhale. It frightened him, how much he wanted it. He had been debased in ways he hadn’t known were possible. He had let them make him into something small and sullied and, in the end, it hadn’t helped him escape. That’s all he was to them and, until he showed them that was never really the case, they had won. If he never escaped Hannibal, if he perished here as a prized possession, at least he’d have had a taste of retribution.

ꭥ

The next week passed sluggishly for Hannibal.

On Monday, he spent the time between patients mapping the least public route to his chosen victim. After the highway, he could stick to rural routes and then follow a winding, gravel road that would take him straight to the back of the row of shabby houses. The victim’s online profiles suggested he spent the majority of his nights smoking marijuana in his yard. If Hannibal picked a night with warm weather and clear skies, he might be lucky enough to find him alone and stoned and his for the taking.

On Tuesday evening, after his last appointment, he formed his alibi; renting an apartment from Airbnb that would go largely unused, unbeknownst to its owners. It was located in an upscale area, a town closer than his actual destination, and he would be sure to enter the property and move a few things around on his way through.

On Wednesday afternoon, which he always kept free to take care of paperwork, Hannibal phoned Alana to inquire after her wellbeing. During their conversation, he just so happened to mention that he was going on a trip to Delaware that weekend, to visit the Hagley Museum and Library.

Thursday’s only highlight was filling Will in on his plans.

And finally, on Friday, he left work an hour earlier than normal thrumming with anticipation. When the weekend was through, Will would be forever changed by his hand.


	15. Verendus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verendus – to be feared, worthy of reverence, giving an impression of aged benevolence.
> 
> (This should be Dark!Will's middle name, if you ask me.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy William Verendus Graham's debut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I think it goes without saying that this chapter is going to be extremely violent. I forced myself not to hold back (Will really deserves this), but that does mean it's fairly graphic. If you've gotten this far, then I'm assuming you're cool with Dark!Will committing some righteous murder HOWEVER [spoiler] if death via genital mutilation is a no-go for you (and who could blame you, really?) then give this one a miss. It's not too far from the things Will and Hannibal discussed quite early on but it is more...descriptive? Anyway, I hope you consider yourself adequately forewarned. 
> 
> Enjoy...?

As the sun set on Friday, Will was relieved to find he didn’t have cold feet. It was a starless night and two foxes were prowling the fields beyond the garden. Will watched their antics from his window and thought back to the dogs he had taken in as a child; a ragged pack that followed him and his father from state to state. The smaller fox set about in a tight circle around the other, the larger of the two completely captivated and penned in by its mate’s lithe body. Will missed the easy co-existence of canine company more than he missed the few friends he had left behind. When the bulkier animal tired of the other’s game, it let out a sharp yip and pounced and the two creatures became a tumbling flash of dark orange that disappeared into the overgrowth. Will was left with nothing but his reflection, so he retreated to his desk with a sigh and reached for the cartridge paper and pencils Hannibal had gifted him shortly after he’d agreed to kill his past tormentors; further conditioning but also a show of trust.

He wasn’t much of an artist, and had told Hannibal as much, but just like the intricacies of wine-tasting, it seemed to be something he was intent on teaching him. With a light touch, he sketched his pack – now long dead – running together along the edge of a large body of water. There was a small, wiry mutt – the first of many – and next to it the hulking shape of a Pitbull cross. At the front of the pack, defiantly faster than the others, was the three-legged Alsatian Will had saved from the strangling grip of a fishing net. He tried, and failed, to incorporate the toothy grin of an elderly terrier mix and then moved on to the pair of matted spaniels he had discovered huddled beneath an upturned rowboat. The proportions were wrong and the perspective far worse, but it was the only physical thing in Will’s prison that he’d chosen. The act of bringing it into being had afforded him a brief moment of control. He folded the paper and slipped it beneath his mattress to keep it free from Hannibal’s touch. His captor had forced his fingers into every aspect of his existence as if it were a lump of common clay, just waiting to be moulded. _The best version of himself_ , Hannibal had said and only just now had it occurred to Will that Hannibal shouldn’t be the one to decide what form that version might take. He was harbouring no reluctance towards the night’s plans because it had been something he had wanted for three years, yet somehow Hannibal had managed to take control of that too. Will would remedy that as soon as he had the chance; would take their victim’s life in his own hands and do whatever felt right and righteous. Not even Hannibal would be able to stop him once he got started.

Hannibal returned several hours before sunrise and smiled when he found Will awake and waiting.

“There’s someone here to see you,” he said, basking in the sense of anther’s impending doom in the same way beach-goers basked in the sun.

When they reached the basement, Will was struck by a sinking feeling to see a body bag where the trestle table had once been. For an awful moment, he assumed the damage had been done without him, but then the bag began to squirm and Will realised – with morbidly pleasant surprise - that Hannibal had gift-wrapped the man for him. His and Hannibal’s footsteps had sent the occupant into a spasm, bucking and arching, and several times his face pressed so close to a panel of the bag that the plastic fabric sank, concave, on an inhale and began to asphyxiate him. Without checking for permission, Will stepped over the bag and approached the cabinet he had once been dashed against. He chose a knife with a blade that curved up into a pleasing point. As he shut the door, the bag ripped behind him and he turned to get a good look at the contents. Will had seen something like it once, a caterpillar still writhing, while it’s skin split open and a cluster of newborn spiders spilled out.

“You’re going to want to crawl back into that bag, if you know what’s good for you” Hannibal said, and Will could feel the excitement radiating off of him.

It left Hannibal in huge waves and pulsed straight through Will’s pores, to coax at his own unfurling enthusiasm. His own was a feverish sort of excitement. A sickly-sweet anticipation that had Will itching to get started even as his anxiety seemed to corporealise – like an impossibly large leech, clinging to his back while it’s undermining sentiments invaded his thoughts. The man on the ground was naked and chuffing like a pig, holding his hands up to Hannibal in surrender. He was smaller than Will remembered, though he supposed their positions had been quite reversed the last time he’d seen him. When Will took a step forward, the man realised there was someone at his back and whipped round, legs still tangled, hands still up.

“ _You?_ ” He gasped, gawking before his face twisted into a snarl and then - just as quickly – into something Will supposed was meant to look placating and full of regret.

This one had relished hurting him more than any of the others, practically gorging himself on Will’s suffering. Will had been worried that he’d crumble when the time came to face him; that the trauma would take over and he’d fling himself behind Hannibal’s legs like a child hiding from an overfamiliar uncle. Hannibal, perhaps predicting this, had focussed all of Will’s sessions on memories of the man and it hadn’t gone to waste. He was piggish and putrid and beneath Will, part of his past, something to purge from the earth in a manner every bit as deplorable as the man himself.

“Hey, come on now-” the pig whimpered, trying and failing to project something assertive into his presence on the floor.

Will shifted the blade in his hand, familiarised himself with its weight, savoured the heady rush he felt when the man’s eyes darted to it and then up to him; bulging and _begging_. How often had Will begged; with his eyes, his voice, the foetal curl of his body? When he took a step forward, the man scrambled back – colliding with Hannibal’s legs and then jerking his head up to silently beg him instead. Will snorted; the sound conveying amusement every bit as much as it did derision at the pig’s misplaced hope. Whatever _he himself_ was, Hannibal was far worse. Right on cue, his captor looked down at the man and gave him an amicable smile before stepping back and making a sweeping motion with his arm as if presenting him to Will like a prize on a gameshow. The pig wailed and Will looked down his nose in disdain. He was pathetic, now that Will was no longer chained to a wall. Everything that was about to happen to him was deserved and Will was vibrating with the thrill of being the one to deliver it.

“I’ve had a hard day,” He said, affecting the pig’s nasal tone, slipping easily into the man’s skin. “Work was a bitch, and not the fun kind. Not like _you_.”

On the last word he lurched forward and thrust that pleasantly pointed edge right between the pig’s legs. He sliced more thigh than anything, men protected their cocks with more doggedness than they did their lives. It was enough to send him scrambling back though, screaming and squealing and slipping on his own blood as failed to get to his feet. Will had exhaled as the blade made its first cut, raising his eyes to Hannibal’s – thanking him. Hannibal stood tall at the foot of the stairs, pupils dilated, enraptured. When Will’s forced himself to look away, still feeling Hannibal’s gaze like something hot and tangible and emanating approval, the pig was hunched over himself – covering himself with blood-slick hands.

“Hey, hey, _hey_ ,” Will mocked, plucking his words straight from a memory that, less than three days ago, would have sent him into a spiral of panic and self-loathing. “Don’t hide from me.”

He supposed the wailing mound of blood and perspiring flesh at his feet had also relived that moment in his head, because his face scrunched, with immediate recognition, into something horrified and _truly_ reminiscent of swine to the slaughter. 

When Will brought the knife down again the man twisted, and it sliced into his hip. It was nothing like the straightforward castration Will had imagined, but it was all the better for the struggle. His pulse was in his ears, hands vibrating with the desire to hit their mark, and he was panting with each failed attempt to land the knife where he wanted it. At one point, his prey lashed out and sent Will stumbling back and – to Will’s relief – Hannibal made no move to intervene. His captor stood by, watching with a placid expression that belied the tense frame Will could see even through the thick layers of his three-piece suit. Black pools for eyes the only other indicator of the man’s pure rhapsody.

Will regained his footing quickly enough and this time the pig was caught off-guard, stance wide as he tried stand. The knife cut a notch into the man’s genitals and stuck there, pulling Will down with the pig as he fell. A penis, Will learned – and quickly compartmentalised – is nothing like a sausage. There’s gristle and it’s tough and _god_ , he hoped Hannibal wouldn’t make him eat it. The last thought came with a laugh that was several octaves too high, as the cock sliced free and Will took advantage of the pig’s agonized wailing and stuffed the mauled member down his throat. Teeth scraped his knuckles on the way out and Will crouched to wipe them dry in the man’s thinning hair as he curled in on himself and retched and coughed and made muffled sounds of distress.

Will balanced over him on the balls of his feet, knuckles white around the blade, hand drenched in blood up to his wrist. He could have kept cutting if he’d liked, but it was enough to commit the panicked face of his abuser to memory as veins burst into being, like bloodworms, in the whites of his eyes.

Will was right, the man choked to death - with blood still dripping sluggishly from the mess between his legs. 

Will stayed crouching like that until his legs gave out from under him and the knife fell from his hand with a loud clatter. Only then did Hannibal approach him, sliding the knife out of reach with his foot before he got down to Will’s level. Will felt a dizzying sort of euphoria, like he was floating even as he sank into Hannibal’s arms.

“You’re glorious, Will,” Hannibal’s voice was somewhere in the distance, it sounded breathless. “Don’t retreat, stay with me.”

 _Like I have a choice_ , Will thought, but without the usual bitterness. Hannibal was up on his knees, a solid wall at Will’s side; one arm around Will’s crumpled form and another cupping his head against his chest. It felt safe and, as Will reached up to grip his arm for balance, he tried to remember the last time anyone other than Hannibal had held him so gently. There was something tranquil in being held like that in the calm and quiet aftermath of his first murder. Hannibal may have been a sadist, but Will decided that after everything he shouldn’t have to acknowledge that; he should be permitted to go lax in the other man’s arms and take everything he needed from the warm embrace of another human being; one that agreed wholeheartedly in the justness of what he had done. And so that’s exactly what he did, while he stared peacefully down at the product of his righteous vengeance.

ꭥ

Hannibal cried. A single tear that tracked a determined path down the sharp plane of his cheekbone and dropped from his chin. Often, he allowed his emotions to exist only in the periphery of his being; there but given no control over his actions. Equally as often, he dedicated himself to the physical experience of coursing dopamine and douses of cortisol or noradrenaline. It was obfuscating; for all the control Hannibal had over _when_ he felt, he could never truly conquer _what_ he felt, or the fact that his feelings came on so powerfully and were often so intoxicating. As he held Will, he abandoned himself to the heady sensations of triumph – like a surplus of oxygen to the brain – and a contentedness that turned his bones to putty. His passion stirred somewhere lower, as satisfying as pushing aching teeth into something hard and ungiving. Altogether it was an ecstasy bested only by the trembling, solid shape of Will in his arms. 

“How do you feel?” He asked in a whisper, lips brushing the shell of Will’s ear.

Will took a shuddering breath and seemed to grow larger in his arms. His spine unfurled, like the fronds of a fern after heavy rain, but he didn’t pull away.

“Unfettered,” he replied, voice low and prodding at that ache in Hannibal.

“There’s more liberation to come,” Hannibal promised, and he wondered if offering Will’s abusers to him on a silver platter would be enough to keep him. If it would be enough to possess him as something more than a captive; perhaps as a confrere or a more virtuous counterpart. “Two more left for you to put an end to.”

“Not here,” Will re-joined, placing his palms to Hannibal chest to put distance between them. He met his eyes, dilated and unflinching.

Hannibal lifted his hands to place over Will’s where they remained against his torso, feeling the tacky blood peel from Will’s skin onto his own.

“Not here,” he agreed, acknowledging that one could hardly achieve liberty in the place they were once chained to a bed. “Upstairs,” he added, frowning slightly when Will yanked his hands back.

“Not _here,_ ” Will insisted, placing his fingers over Hannibal’s, asserting himself in every sense. “Take me to the next one. Take me with you.”

Hannibal felt a twist of suspicion. He could sense he was teetering on fragile ground. He considered denying Will, simply forcing him back into his room to reiterate their dynamic, but then had he not _just_ been hoping for something more? Just then he felt something warm spread along the side of his calf. The pig’s blood had reached them, stretching like stark, red fingers through the grouting.

Will looked down at the same moment, touching the warm, dark patch on his own leg and bringing his fingers up painted afresh in red. He looked at them for a moment, a gentle smile spreading easily across his face and Hannibal was decided.

“Yes,” he vowed, reaching up and twining his fingers through Will’s. “I’ll take you to the next one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly 1000 kudos, guys! Thank you so much for all of the lovely comments and support I have received from you all. I hope you enjoyed the little snippet of Will's past dogs, to add some fluff to this hellfire of a chapter.


	16. Destinesia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Destinesia – when you get to where you were intending to go, but forget why you were going there in the first place.

Hannibal didn’t want to leave Will for even the briefest of moments after his kill, but eventually urged him up and towards the shower while he remained to cut the body into shapes more conducive to storage. Will would take this upon himself one day, Hannibal was sure, but in that moment he seemed too sated and sleepy to take on the more practical aspects of killing and cannibalism himself. It would have been rapture, to have helped Will display his victim; to baffle the FBI with a new killer every bit as uncatchable as the Chesapeake Ripper himself. Hannibal’s own sounder had been interrupted when his second pig had brought he and Will together. It had been a far superior experience to have Will cut into the stuff, chilled body of the mechanic than it would have been to dangle the man before the FBI.

To have Will present his own victim now may well reignite the search for the missing student. The FBI would be drawn to Will’s doubtless _beautiful_ tableaux like a fly to the bright maw of a carnivorous plant. How long before they made the connection with the missing mechanic, and then to the young cashier who had worked alongside him and whom too, had disappeared? It was unlikely the mechanic’s accomplices had left anything incriminating behind in the basement, but the thought of any renewed attention towards Will’s whereabouts was intolerable to Hannibal. Regrettably, none of Will’s abusers could be displayed. It would have to be satisfaction enough that the Chesapeake Ripper’s own absence after only one kill would leave the FBI scratching their heads.

When both men were washed and dressed for bed, Hannibal visited Will in his room. He had, of course, locked all the doors and windows before allowing Will to return to his room unaided, but was happy to find no signs that Will had shown any inclination towards escape. He was likely so empowered and engulfed in satisfaction that the thought had not even occurred to him. Will was towelling his hair at the end of his bed when Hannibal joined him, and he raised his head slowly to acknowledge him – gone were the stilted, twitchy movements Hannibal had become use to. A marked improvement, he decided, and indulged in the pride that came with knowing he was responsible for this blossoming, new Will.

“What’s your favourite meal, Will?” He asked, not having moved from the doorway, happy to stand and watch Will looking so comfortable under his roof.

Will let the towel drop to his lap as he gave it some thought. His curls hung damp and dark around his pale face; like a pearl set against black lace.

“Emerald Dal,” he said after a moment.

“A vegetarian curry,” Hannibal replied flatly, though Will was smiling at him – a small, genuine expression that very nearly reached his eyes – and Hannibal had to refrain from stepping forward and touching Will’s lips where they turned up at the corners.

“I like ribs,” Will said, with a self-deprecating shrug, “Is that- does that work?”

“It does,” Hannibal said, stepping forward and taking the towel from Will’s lap to pick up where Will left off.

His guest stiffened only slightly when Hannibal began his gentle ministrations but then relaxed back into the touch. The head wound was nearly healed and, when the hair parted away from the raised line, Hannibal ran his thumb over it and remembered their fight.

“Will you help me prepare it?” He asked, and barely recognised his own voice for how unguarded it sounded.

“I don’t think my cooking skills are up to your standard,” Will answered and Hannibal tutted good-naturedly and took that as a yes.

-

For all his previous comfort in his own skin, Will was ill at ease again the next day; tapping a nervous staccato on the kitchen counter and swallowing audibly when Hannibal stood close behind him to tie his apron strings. When Hannibal brushed past him to collect the ingredients, Will startled and mumbled an apology, taking a step away and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Hannibal considered him for a few moments, Will practically wilting under his gaze. It was a curious shift in behaviour. His guest certainly knew how to keep him on his toes.

He guided him towards the kitchen island with a firm hand and set a chopping board in front of him, before crossing over to the knife block on the adjacent counter.

“If you give me a knife, I’ll stab you,” Will said, voiced strained and cutting through the quite ambience of birdsong just outside the window like a rusty chainsaw.

This, it seemed, was the cause of Will’s trepidation. Hannibal paused, hand hovering just over the handle he had been reaching for. He dropped it back to his side and turned to face his guest, head tilted.

“I appreciate the warning,” he said, not quite sure how he felt about the confession. A little betrayed, perhaps. Mostly bemused.

“I’m sorry, I just-” Will was looking everywhere other than at Hannibal, which was of course entirely unacceptable when they had come so far.

“Can’t in good nature allow yourself to remain my captive?” Hannibal finished for him, regaining his attention.

“Not if you dangle escape in front of me like a carrot,” Will muttered, hunching his shoulders but otherwise standing his ground.

“You’d like me, then, to make escape _less_ attainable?” Hannibal asked, lips tilting into a smile.

Will seemed displeased but, Hannibal decided, stable enough to poke at without doing irreparable damage to their budding rapport. His guest – _captive_ – was frowning in a way that formed a small divot between his brows. Beautifully confused at his own train of thought.

“You won’t stay of your own accord,” Hannibal stated, approaching Will carefully, noting the way his eyes darted to meet his own before glancing towards the exit, “but so long as the matter is out of your hands, you can come to terms with it.” 

“I know it’s not- that it sounds,” Will tried, trailing off with a frustrated sigh, “I don’t know how to express it in words.”

“The term _Stockholm syndrome_ comes to mind” Hannibal suggested, in a teasing tone that drew something close to a glare from Will. It was a distinctly attractive look on him; usually blue eyes engulfed in a blackness that rivalled a typhoon-whisked ocean.

“ _No,”_ He stated, incredibly adamant. Hannibal mused that the suggestion seemed to offend him. In a voice that had begun to tremble, Will added; “You keep telling me things are _wrong_ with me. PTSD. Stockholm syndrome. As if it’s me that’s the problem, not our situation.”

 _Our_ situation. Something shared.

When Hannibal reached him, he placed his hands around Will’s upper arms, grounding him.

“Syndromes are not mental illness, Will. They are just a collection of behaviours that fit neatly under an umbrella term.”

He didn’t voice that he would not stand for the notion that Will’s growing attachment toward him was anything other than of his own accord.

“But it’s not Stockholm syndrome,” Will insisted quietly, not moving out of Hannibal’s reach.

“Perhaps not, if you’re so willing to stab me,” Hannibal acquiesced, squeezing gently and then letting Will go. He didn’t comment on the way his guest swayed forward slightly, into the space he had vacated.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, picking at the corner of his apron.

“I’m grateful that stabbing me stirs feelings of regret.”

Hannibal pulled a bowl of cranberries forward and moved to collect a needle and thread from a drawer to his right.

“Should I be on guard?” He asked, handing the needle - point first - to Will with his eyebrows raised.

Will gave a stilted shake of his head, clearly not willing to mirror his captor’s humour, and took the needle – following Hannibal’s direction to thread as many cranberries as possible on a single length of thread. Meanwhile, Hannibal took charge of any slicing and dicing while wondering what might happen if he left a knife unattended for a length of time. He opted to let Will enjoy this moment, rather than preoccupying him with the pressure to escape.

The ribs lay between them, at the centre of the island; ivory keys jutting out of a thick slab of human flesh. When they were each done with their respective tasks, Hannibal showed Will how to curve them and use butcher string to fasten them into shape. He stood behind Will – not pressed to his back, that would overwhelm him – and guided his hands; the inch of space between them teeming with static charge. 

“Good,” he murmured, remaining at Will’s back even after he had shown himself to be perfectly capable. “Did you tie marine rope with your father?”

Will hummed, biting his lip in concentration.

“This isn’t really the same though,” he reasoned, and Hannibal watched him drop the twine and struggle on for a moment before he intervened.

Many of Will’s fingers had been broken, and then left to reset poorly. He knew that intricate tasks such as this would be far more difficult than before. Hannibal would have offered to break them for him, to reset them properly, if he didn’t think the suggestion alone would send Will into a downward spiral and ruin his appetite.

“Like this,” he murmured, reaching around Will to demonstrate and taking the opportunity to smell the crook of his neck.

Fear had an acrid scent, and Will wore it like an unpleasant aftershave. Hannibal forced himself to step away and give him space to calm down. This was an experience to be enjoyed, not one for Will to flinch through – bearing Hannibal’s presence like a suffocating smog.

Later that day, the ribs sat before them in the shape of a crown; golden and glazed and draped in cranberries like a hundred beads of blood. Hannibal had taken Will’s Southern palette into consideration and served the creation over a bed of collard greens and candied yams. It was a coronation and it would taste like coming home. Hannibal watched Will take the first bite, watched his eyes slip closed and his face crumble into something tranquil and vulnerable at the taste of his conquest.

He was an undeniably attractive man, all the more so for the progress he had made in his healing. Hannibal was caught between the desire to keep him this way – pinned like a butterfly between sickness and health – and to see how far Hannibal’s brand of healing could bring him; if one day in the future he would welcome the type of touch that presently chilled him to his core.

“When will it be safe?” Hannibal asked, before taking a bite from his own plate. At Will’s questioning glance he swallowed and clarified: “to give you a knife?”

“I- what?”

“When will you make peace with who you are and what you want?” Hannibal pushed, taking up his glass of wine and raising it to his nose.

Will let the tines of his fork rest on the edge of his plate with a quiet click.

“When you let me go,” he said, “When I don’t _have_ to stab you.”

It was at that moment that Hannibal first wished they had met under different circumstances, though he knew that if that were the case, it would have taken him far longer to show his true self to Will.

“I won’t let you go,” he said, laced with regret, “I would be putting myself at risk.”

Will was nodding before Hannibal had even finished his sentence. He knew that was the case, he was merely making a point and Hannibal failed to find peace in the fact that they both knew where they stood with the other. It was not where either man would prefer to be standing.

“Then, never, I suppose,” Will answered, and Hannibal felt a desperate stab of longing. Longing for something he and Will could never be.

“It’s a shame,” he said, voice measured, body deliberately lax “you’d make an excellent sues chef.”

He took his first bite of Will’s kill. The taste was akin to the rich, molasses sweetness of victory hard-won, but tinged with a bitter, salted yearning.


	17. Onism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onism - The awareness of how little of the world you'll experience. 
> 
> Hi everyone, if you're interest in my old fic, Limerence, then read on. If not, skip this note and enjoy a slightly longer chapter than normal! :) 
> 
> So, I've had some interest in an old fic that I had deleted for personal reasons a few years ago. In the past two days, thisisnotthepoint over at Tumblr and Alaquella here at ao3 have managed to track down copies for me. Because of these wonderful people, I have been inspired to re-post and finally complete that fic as soon as this one is finished. I'll be going through each chapter and editing minor details, so it's unlikely i'll be able to post the entire work at once, but the story will remain the same. Thanks again to the lovely people who reconnected me with my lost work!

The nightmares continued and, showering off in the dead of night, Will began to wonder if he’d ever be rid of them. A part of him had hoped that killing one of his abusers, exerting that power and control over them and then removing them from existence, would quell his night terrors. The sessions with Hannibal helped him control his fear while conscious and grounded in reality, but his mind merely waited for him to slip under; unconsciousness grinning like the mouth of hell. He stepped from the bathroom and stripped the bed, slipping his dogs safely out from under the mattress so they wouldn’t get crinkled. There was a short period of time, after his mother left, that Will could only sleep when wrapped around that first, wiry little mutt. Loyalty becomes a sacred concept to the abandoned child. If his furry companion wriggled out from his arms to relieve herself, Will would startle awake with a scream lodged in his throat. He remade the bed with clean sheets and spread several layers of towels across the mattress for protection, but when he slipped in under the covers he realised he was wired and would likely spend the rest of the night pacing the length of his room.

“This can’t go on,” Hannibal stated firmly, upon finding Will asleep one Wednesday afternoon.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he offered in defence, cracking one eye open. 

“Up,” Hannibal ordered, stripping back the sheets and pulling Will roughly to his feet.

Will flinched on instinct and shrank away from Hannibal once he was standing.

“Sorry,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face with more force than necessary. “I really didn’t sleep well last night.”

“It’s occurred to me,” Hannibal began, as he guided Will through the door and towards the stairs, “that your EMDR sessions alone are not sufficient when it comes to the trauma you face at night.”

Will stumbled on the first step, gripping Hannibal’s sleeve to right himself.

“Sorry,” he said again, and through his squinted eyes he could see Hannibal considering his grip on his arm with a tilted head. He pulled his hands back quickly, wondering if he’d broken an unspoken rule. Will was aware that in all the weeks Hannibal had kept him hostage, the only times he had been the one to initiate touch was to hit or bite or force a bone saw into Hannibal’s shoulder. “I-”

“-didn’t sleep well last night?” Hannibal finished for him, with a wry smile – just shy of mocking.

Will held the bannister as they descended, disoriented from the long nap. The light peering through the kitchen blinds – always closed when Will was downstairs – seemed brighter than usual.

“What time is it?” He asked.

“I have no appointments on Wednesday afternoons, and was particularly efficient with my paperwork this week.” Hannibal answered, leaving Will to assume it was perhaps two or three pm.

He nodded absently and allowed himself to be pushed down into the armchair he assumed Hannibal usually reserved for guests while he cooked.

“The afternoon is ours,” Hannibal said, with a satisfied smile, and Will watched him retrieve ingredients from the fridge while he remained banished, as far from the knives as possible.

Hannibal, Will had come to realise, truly enjoyed his company. He had known for a while now, that his captor enjoyed controlling him and forcing him to talk about things he likely couldn’t discuss with anyone else. He had even come to accept that Hannibal enjoyed caring for him; as another means of exerting his power over Will. This though, was a rare slither of something soft and human; Hannibal craved friendship and everything that came with it. Will wasn’t immune to the need for companionship.

“What’s for lunch?” He asked, because he knew Hannibal liked to talk about his cooking and it was still very much his plan to keep him happy.

“Steak,” he replied, peeling back the butcher paper to reveal what anyone, other than Will, would assume was just that. “Pan seared and served over a cannellini salad.”

Hannibal began to dice onions and Will sat a little straighter in his chair to watch. Despite his books and music and pencils, Will spent much of his time horribly unstimulated. Even the view from his window began to wane in interest over time; he had never seen anyone make use of the wide, green space and the foxes had not yet deigned to return. It was a morose but undeniable fact that escaping the four walls of his room and talking to his captor was the best part of his day.

“As I was saying,” Hannibal continued, hands moving dexterously and eyes not tearing up despite the pungent sting in the air, “your night terrors remain a problem.”

Will hummed his assent as Hannibal began to cut into what looked like a small, green pumpkin.

“What’s that?” He asked.

“A kabocha, Will,” Hannibal answered, placing his knife down and studying him over the island for a moment, “try to stay on track.”

Will ducked his head, a little worried that he was wearing Hannibal’s patience thin. His body clock had switched on him and he felt as though he’d been woken in the early hours of the morning. His rubbed his eyes and tried to blink himself awake.

“I have decided to insist on the use of a sedative,” Hannibal said, punctuating his statement with one large _chop_ through the kabocha.

Will felt his chest seize as the statement sobered him.

“Remember your breathing exercises,” Hannibal said nonchalantly, when Will’s panicked breaths started to leave him in quick succession.

He despised being sedated. Had only agreed to that initial needle in his arm because he had believed Hannibal when he’d insinuated it would kill him. Gripping the arms of his chair tight enough to leave crescent imprints in the leather, Will replicated the long inhales and exhales that Hannibal had shown him. It had been one of those choices that Hannibal sometimes offered; beta-blockers or sedatives and Will had opted for the first.

“I’ve been taking my beta-blockers,” he said, and grimaced when his voice left him in a high, whining timbre.

“I’m aware, Will,” Hannibal assured him, flicking his eyes up to Will’s hunched form in the corner and then back to the knife in his hand. “They’ve been ineffective. You scream through the night.”

“I’ll keep it down,” Will tried, in a whisper as if to prove his point.

“You won’t need to, Will. I’m sure the sedative and a change to your lifestyle will do the job.”

Hannibal resumed his chopping and then moved on to sear the steaks over a hob, leaving Will to catastrophise. He had often been sedated and would wake aching all over and only able to determine what had been done to him by exploring the sorest parts of his body. He imagined waking from sedation in a bathtub full of ice, an angry red incision stretching across his abdomen and the smell of his sizzling organs wafting up from the kitchen.

“I don’t want to be sedated,” Will said.

“Noted,” Hannibal replied, flipping the steaks in the hissing oil.

ꭥ

That night Hannibal brought Will a small, white pill and placed it next to his cup of water at his bedside. 

“I thought you’d inject me again,” Will admitted, with narrowed eyes.

Hannibal, having grown rather tired of waking to the various sounds of terror filtering down the hall, looked pointedly at the pill and waited.

“I don’t want to take it,” Will said, sullenly.

“I don’t want to continue to have my sleep disrupted,” Hannibal replied.

Will swallowed visibly and bit at the corner of his thumb.

“ _Please_ don’t make,” he tried, and looked up through his lashes with doleful blue eyes.

At the beginning of their time together, Hannibal would have forced the pill down Will’s throat or slipped a needle into the crook of his neck or even slammed his head against the wall until he slumped, motionless to the floor. At the beginning of their time together, Will had never tested him like this. He was growing bold and pushing the boundaries, and Hannibal couldn’t help but admit to himself that this Will was much more fun than the Will that lay despondently in bed, staring at the wall and waiting for his life to end.

“You are going to take the sedative,” he stated firmly; “but, we can discuss your concerns.”

“My concern is being sedated!” Will snapped, and then shrank back against the headboard as Hannibal came to sit at his side. “I just…hate not knowing what’s happening to me.”

“It’s not a general anaesthetic, Will. It’s merely a sleep aide.”

Will glanced back at the pill dubiously, but Hannibal sensed a window and scooped it up into his hand.

“And of course, in line with your conditioning, you’d receive some extra liberties as reward for the compromise. Time in the garden perhaps?”

He supressed a smile as Will’s eyes snapped to his.

“Tomorrow?” He asked hopefully.

“Yes, and each day after that. Let’s say fifteen minutes when you first wake up.”

“Why?” Will asked, soft but prying.

“I believe exposure to natural light will improve your sleeping patterns,” Hannibal replied, extending his hand out a little to see if Will would take the pill from him.

He didn’t.

“And to keep you awake while I’m away, perhaps some more activities?”

Hannibal glanced around the room, imagined a chess board under the window, more books lining the shelves and…

“What do you enjoy, Will?” He asked, only now realising that when he pictured Will it was usually in the form of the wilted man he had discovered or the glorious accomplice he hoped to help shape. “How did you once fill your time, when it was yours to fill?”

“I don’t think you’ll like the answer,” Will replied, looking past Hannibal at something that existed only in his mind.

“Oh?”

“It’s nothing you can use for your _conditioning_ ,” Will explained, with a grimace. “Nature, fishing, working with my hands,” the uncomfortable line of his lips tilted into something more pleasant. “I made lures out of the things I found while walking my dogs; feathers, bones.”

Hannibal hummed and pictured a plethora of bright, striking creations mounted above Will’s desk.

“The lures I will allow,” he decided aloud, “and the time in the garden.”

“All that,” Will said slowly, his tone measured; “just for taking a pill?”

Hannibal grasped Will’s wrist and pushed the pill firmly into the palm of his hand.

“I value my own sleep very highly,” he said, though truly he rarely needed more than four hours to function perfectly well.

Once Will had taken it, and washed and dressed for bed, the effects became quickly apparent. He slouched and blinked hazily, with a frown that Hannibal found quite endearing. He decided to take advantage of Will’s state and describe his new routine as he helped him into bed.

“I insist you take chamomile tea every evening, the apigenin in the flower will help induce a relaxed state. I can read to you during this time, I fear you use your books as a distraction from sleep when you are left to read them alone. A hot bath after that, with lavender oil. As you cool from it, your body will slip into a state more conducive to a good night’s sleep. Finally, your sedative.”

“Sounds nice,” Will slurred, sinking further into his mattress, eyes closed.

Hannibal took the opportunity to reach out card his fingers through Will’s hair which caused him to frown again but otherwise remain perfectly still.

“What’s your end game?” Will sighed, eyebrows sloping in confusion.

“As we’ve discussed, Will,” Hannibal said, a hand on his shoulder, “nothing is set in stone.”

Will’s closed eyes scrunched further and the twist of his lips suggested he was unsatisfied with the answer.

“That was then,” he said, “what about now?”

With a final, affectionate squeeze to Will’s shoulder, Hannibal moved to leave the room. He had planned to let Will’s question hang, but as he drew away Will made a small, disappointed sound.

“What _about_ now?” Hannibal asked instead, because watching Will stumble over his words in his sleep-addled state was quite pleasing.

“It’s different,” he said, and then -with an almost imperceptible tilt to his lips slurred; “You like me.”

Hannibal exhaled, amused, and nodded his assent despite Will’s inability to see it.

“My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will,” he allowed, but his guest had already slipped away from him, into sleep.

ꭥ

_The routine,_ as Will had sardonically decided to term Hannibal’s forced doting, was actually very effective. More often than not, Will slept through the night and awoke peacefully free from the morbid remnants of his dreams. At first, he hadn’t truly accepted that Hannibal meant him no harm. He took to placing his cup in front of the door, close enough that Hannibal wouldn’t be able to replace it if he knocked it over and tried to cover his tracks. Each morning, he found everything as he’d left it and, eventually, he neglected to set the trap; confident that the only benefit Hannibal reaped from Will’s slumber was his own, uninterrupted sleep.

There was no stemming the gratitude that had begun to swell in him. An absence of cruelty was the closest thing Will knew to kindness.

The time they spent in the garden was his true salvation. The fifteen minutes passed quickly, but Hannibal was true to his word and escorted Will to sit under the cover of the trellis every morning without fail. Sometimes they spoke in hushed tones, other times they sat in comfortable silence as the sun rose. When Will asked if he could pick one of the purple perennials, Hannibal gave his permission without question. Later, when he was locked alone in his room, Will pressed the flower between the pages of one of his heaviest books so he could run his fingers over the crisp petals whenever he liked. It was a perplexing reminder that Hannibal contained vestiges of kindness. Will spent many hours pondering the purple petals and warming to the man that had plucked Will, like a plant on the verge of death, and pressed him between the pages of his own story.

When Hannibal returned one evening with a small wooden chest under his arm, Will was struck with the hope that his captor had kept _every_ part of his promise. His hands shook as he lifted the lid and found this to be the case. The box was lacquered, the first tier lined with black velvet, and sat in neat little compartments within were an array of bright feathers and pearlescent glass shapes; yellow and red like shimmering fish scales. There were fragments of bone and coloured twine and even, to Will’s surprise, several sharp, gleaming hooks. When he lifted the velvet tier, he found a magnifying glass, possibly framed with real gold, and small pliers and tweezers with the same golden finish.

It was easily the most beautiful gift Will had ever been given.

The intricacy of lure making was difficult at first. Will had suffered several broken fingers over the years and, despite his best attempts at binding them with scraps of fabric as they healed, they contained a residual stiffness. His first attempt was messy, the hook poorly concealed, and he broke it down into pieces to start again. Despite the dilemma of shaking hands and crooked fingers however, Will felt parts of himself slipping back into place as he worked. With each bright feather bound by twine to the fishhook, and each fragment of bone embedded along with it, Will felt as though he were being restored. Perhaps not to the man he had been, but closer to his past self than he ever thought possible. It was the kind of work he could get lost in, but when he re-emerged it was with an extra piece of himself.

For the first time in years, Will spent several hours at a time _enjoying_ himself. He savoured the weight of the magnifying glass, the gold handle warming to his palm; he relished the soft touch of the feather barbs between his fingers. He even cherished the moments when the fishhook pricked a finger, and the resulting bead of blood reminded him that this was real; that he was indulging in a craft he assumed had been taken from him for good. Before long, he had a neat row of lures lining the far edge of his desk. The hooks were so well concealed that it was nearly impossible to tell that, below twisted twine and chips of coloured glass, one lure remained without one. Hannibal would count a lure for every hook he had gifted Will, unaware that one sharp, steel point had been pierced through the fabric of the mattress and lay there, nestled among the bedsprings.

From the selection of new books lining Will’s shelves, he chose to read The Cambridge History of Medicine; certain it was something Hannibal would enjoy discussing. His captor continued to read him to sleep with classical literature – as a firm part of _The Routine –_ but during daylight hours Will was free to read alone, as he pleased. The front cover displayed a pasty cadaver, surrounded by men wearing black capes and wide, white lace collars. The corpse’s arm had been flayed, and Will traced the tendons with his finger and then repeated the motion on his own arm – twitching as he felt the raised smattering of faded cigarette burns. He drew his fingers away quickly and began flipping through the book; skipping past Hippocrates and Paracelsus and then all of the gruesome medical torture of the middle ages, to stop on the anatomical work of Leonardo Di Vinci. The muscles and tendons were clearer here; sketched and shaded so perfectly that the illustration was as good a reference as any photograph of a flayed man. Second only to the real thing, Will supposed.

On Saturday, Hannibal allowed Will twice as long in the garden for taking so well to The Routine. Spring had begun to ward off the chill in air and both men absorbed the warmth quietly, hair tousled by a gentle breeze.

“Tell me about your time in medical school,” Will murmured, undemanding.

He appreciated his time outside, and Hannibal appreciated telling Will about certain, dark aspects of his past. Will had decided he shouldn’t be the only one rewarded.

“What would you like to know?” Hannibal asked, tilting his head up to smell the sweet scent of pollen carried on the breeze.

Will took a moment to appreciate it too, while watching contented insects fold up their wings and bask in the flowerbeds.

“The first time you _dissected_ someone,” Will decided, “did anyone suspect anything? I can’t help but imagine you’d be too steady handed.”

Hannibal smiled, clearly taking that as praise.

“Medical students attend _prosections_ first,” he explained, “we observed an experienced teacher long before we cut into a cadaver of our own.”

Will nodded, biting his lip, and felt Hannibal’s eyes on him as he continued to watch the comings and goings of a bee.

“That first time,” Will murmured, careful not to be overheard regardless of the fact that they were likely the only two souls awake so early on the weekend, “when I woke up to you _slicing_ him-”

“Shortly after you sliced into me?” Hannibal quipped.

Will huffed, “yes, then.”

“Hmm?”

“Was that my prosection?”

Will watched Hannibal retreat a little, slipping safely behind his person suit and donning a rather unreadable expression.

“I seem to recall you being quite the active participant,” Hannibal said, void of emotion, and then added; “you’re leading our conversation into fascinating territory of your own accord, Will. To what end?”

He’d steered his captor straight into suspicion and the thought made Will deflate a little. It was a reminder that he was at a constant disadvantage and that, while Hannibal could withdraw one moment, he could easily lash out the next.

“I’ve been thinking about what I did, in the basement,” he breathed.

“I’m not surprised,” Hannibal mused, “I too like to indulge in that particular memory. Is the recollection alone enough to sate you, Will? Or are you already anticipating the next?”

Will nodded, stiffly.

“The latter,” he said, “I- I want you to be my _experienced teacher_.”

He watched Hannibal’s pupils dilate and it was oddly reassuring to be able to silently welcome him back. He felt safer when Hannibal wasn’t hiding.

“Did you draw the cadavers?” Will asked him, “commit the peeled skin and spread rib cages to memory - and then to paper when you were alone?”

Hannibal nodded. Will watched his throat bob as he swallowed.

“I felt, _flayed_.” Will continued, and it was perhaps the longest Hannibal had ever allowed him to speak without interruption. “Before you found me. Like they’d skinned me and were prodding exposed nerves to see which bits of me would bend and which would break under blunt fingers.”

He felt his eyes fill but blinked the tears back, focussed on his breathing. This feeling was residual; Hannibal had draped Will’s skin back over him, marked and marred but thicker than before.

“You’d like to flay them in return,” Hannibal surmised. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his gaze into the middle distance told Will that his captor was envisioning it in perfect clarity.

Hannibal looked so pleased with him in that moment. When their eyes met, Will felt almost _admired._ He couldn’t help but wonder how Hannibal would react once they had consumed Will’s final abuser – how Hannibal’s admiration would turn to ash when Will revealed that he was done with the killing; that he would no longer provide Hannibal with that savage solidarity. Despite his captor’s claims that they were the same in the most important ways, Will knew that his own need for retribution could never transcend to the murder of innocents. Hannibal would snuff Will out - like one culled a creature unable to perform the role for which they were bred - when he inevitably withdrew from the killing. Will felt confident in that conclusion. It would be akin to betrayal; to give Hannibal something so close to friendship and then take it away. He knew he’d need to slip away while Hannibal was still coming down from that euphoric final kill. He thought of the fishhook embedded in his mattress.

“We will need to act promptly,” Hannibal said, picking lint from the cuff of his sleeve. “Our next victim’s online activity has become scarce since the disappearance of a second accomplice. He suspects he’s next.”

Will nodded, waiting for Hannibal to continue.

“On Tuesday you’ll accompany me to Long Island. There’s a charity event I’m expected to attend the following day.”

“You’re a philanthropist?” Will asked, with a nervous smile.

Hannibal returned the expression, unabashed.

“On Thursday, we’ll drive back through Delaware and pick up an extra passenger when we stop to refuel.”

Will did his best to swallow his doubt. Hannibal had agreed to take Will with him; but they’d been heady with the thrill of his first kill. He hadn’t imagined it would actually come to fruition, and couldn’t imagine how it would work. Would Hannibal bind his hands and blind him for the journey? Would Will get to sit up in the passenger seat, get a taste of his surroundings from an open window, or would Hannibal force him into the footwell and tell him to stay down? He imagined Hannibal had a second property somewhere, his house was dripping in the tell-tale signs of old money, and that he would keep Will there while he was at his event. There’d be no upholstered room there, though – he’d likely be banished back to a basement. Still, he’d at least have the experience of four new walls.


	18. Poputchik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poputchik - Stranger you connect to on a trip

Will waited at the front door, staring down at his feet. They were unrecognisable in the black oxfords Hannibal had gifted him that morning. He pressed the ball of one foot hard into the ground and watched the soft leather crinkle and then fall flat. There was something disjointing about being elevated ever so slightly by the thick sole of a shoe after years of walking barefoot on broken toes. Since arriving at Hannibal’s, Will’s presence had always been announced by the shuffling susurrus of socked feet. Now, his steps were dull but defined against the parquet floor.

“Ready?” Hannibal asked him, his eyes crinkling as he rounded the corner – keys already inexplicably in hand.

Will nodded, swallowing against the light fabric of the scarf he’d been instructed to wear. The yellowing imprint of Hannibal’s forearm at his throat would otherwise draw unwanted attention. Paired with a charcoal peacoat, Will was sure that he and Hannibal resembled a pair of upper-class friends; or perhaps a couple, for the close proximity his captor would doubtless insist upon.

Hannibal reached around him to unlock the door and paused when a small sound of distress left Will’s lips. He tilted his head, with a questioning glance.

“What if someone recognises me? Will you hurt them?” He whispered, no need to talk any louder with Hannibal standing so near.

“You’re a cold case, Will. Three years passed, and no family to stoke a fire under law enforcement’s proverbial behind,” Hannibal reasoned, blunt and blasé. “You can move among them like a shadow and, if you do it well, there’s no reason we can’t venture out again in the future.”

The reminder of his insignificance was a painful one, but the promise of extended freedom had Will bobbing his head with anxious enthusiasm. With a jingle of keys, they stepped out into the empty street. Will sucked in a long, steady breath to compose himself and drank in the avenue of angular, redbrick houses and the straight lines of cherry-blossoms spanning the sides of the road. He felt the stretch of an unsteady smile, even as he joined Hannibal at his car to await instructions.

“Baltimore in springtime is quite lovely,” Hannibal said, as he held open the passenger door and ushered Will inside. “We’ll pass some stunning architecture before we join the highway.”

Will concealed his surprise as he took his seat but could not contain a small huff of disbelief when Hannibal slipped in beside him and began to pull away without so much as binding his hands. After so long, the clunk of his seatbelt clicking into place and soft hum of the engine sounded foreign. The rows of peaked roofs and the occasional bright red fire hydrant was more alien still. He had never imagined that the sloping shape of a streetlamp or the faded road markings could bring him such cautious bliss. He was only aware that he was crying when they drove past the dark walls of a church and he caught sight of his reflection in the window. He rubbed the tears away furiously with his coat sleeve. It was one thing for tears to escape him when he beaten or demeaned. That was excusable, this was becoming excessive.

“I imagine this is overwhelming,” Hannibal probed, but Will felt capable of nothing more than an affirmative hum in response.

Inevitably, they soon passed pedestrians; the first unassuming people Will had laid eyes on in years. He watched a jubilant little girl – a chubby hand held by each of her parents – and imagined a scenario in which he tumbled from the car- scraping himself on the tarmac- and screamed for them to help him, to call the police, to do _something_. They looked so comfortable and content; Will could never sully their day with his pitifully confusing existence.

“Was everything always so… _imposing_?” Will asked, ducking to rub his temples with one stretched hand. “I feel like I’m experiencing a post-impressionist painting from the inside.”

“God’s upped the contrast,” Hannibal mused, glancing around as if taking his City in with new eyes, “It’s fitting. It mirrors the stark difference between your past and present.”

“My memories of the world are all in sepia,” Will replied, words pained and precise, drawn out in response to the throbbing in his skull. “A soft, fuzzy brown. Less migraine-inducing.”

Hannibal made a pleased sound and rolled the passenger window down a fraction. The fresh air helped to ease Will’s headache. He was glad Hannibal hadn’t taken his comments for ingratitude. Now that Will was out, he never wanted to be inside again, but after the dark palette and warm, dull glow of Hannibal’s house everything seemed slightly too bright. The deep and pleasant sound of a large dog barking from somewhere behind had Will twisting in his seat to catch a glimpse of it before they turned onto the next street.

“I find the hues in my mind lend themselves more to blues and greens since you’ve come into my life,” Hannibal said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself.

Will’s brows sloped in confusion, his face scrunching as he turned back to the front and tried to make sense of the words.

“There’s aspirin in the glove compartment,” Hannibal said, before he could respond.

ꭥ

After two hours on the perpetual grey stretch of highway, Will drifted. Hannibal watched him in his peripheral, noting a twitching movement like scarabs beneath the fine curve of his eyelids. Another nightmare, no doubt. A consequence of entering sleep through emotional exhaustion and the absence of pain rather than sedatives and chamomile. Hannibal played Chopin’s Nocturne No2, in the hopes that the gentle melody would ease its way into Will’s dreams as they sailed along route 295. He wanted Will calm, well rested and able to fully appreciate the gravitas of their first kill _together_. Not just the guided carving of a carcass, nor the silent supervision of Will as he avenged himself, but the sort of shared ascension that could only be born from blood. Hannibal hoped that after this the fragile connection between them, the one Will’s empathy had enabled, would be encased in steel; strengthened and eternalised.

Hannibal passed the larger service stations, with their security cameras and prying eyes, and stopped to get gas at a much smaller station once they had left the highway. It was bright and well-kempt, but with only one pump and no cameras or other cars in sight. A single cashier, sat chewing gum, was visible through the window. Hannibal stirred Will gently, cupping his cheek in one hand, and was disappointed when Will startled awake with a gasp.

“Do you need to use the restroom?” Hannibal asked, drawing away.

Will swallowed and nodded, rubbing his eyes and taking their surroundings in with a few slow blinks.

“How long was I asleep?” He asked.

“An hour or so, we’re not far now,” Hannibal replied, then - pausing with his hand on the door handle - turned back to add; “are you feeling cooperative, Will?”

When the other man nodded with sombre sincerity, Hannibal pushed his door open and rounded the car to open Will’s.

“Good, then you can accompany me while I pay for gas and choose yourself something to drink,” he said quietly, savouring the way Will huffed in response as he slipped from the vehicle.

The toilet was housed in a small brick building to the side of the main station. The window was narrow and set high in the wall, so Hannibal allowed Will to use the amenities alone while he stood at the door. He didn’t deign to use them himself. Will seemed refreshed when he came back out, a couple of droplets trickling down his neck from where he’d splashed water onto his face. He stuck close to Hannibal’s side as they entered the shop, and Hannibal could not determine whether he was doing so to keep his captor appeased, to avoid the urge to reach out to someone for help, or if it was merely an unconscious action born from spending so much time with Hannibal alone, locked away from the rest of the world. To test him, Hannibal pointed to the far wall where the drinks stood in a large, humming display and suggested he pick something for the two of them. He remained just inside of the door and watched as Will shuffled towards the drinks, keeping himself hunched. He spent a long stretch of time just staring at the bright labels.

From behind the counter to Hannibal’s left, the cashier cleared his throat.

“Are you gonna pay for your gas?” he asked, with a pierced brow raised.

He blew a large bubble with the gum in his mouth which popped before disappearing back between his lips. Hannibal eyed his nametag and gave him his most genial smile.

“My apologies, I’m just waiting on my companion.”

The cashier shrugged and Hannibal spared Will another glance before approaching the counter to peruse the stack of red and black flyers beside the charity pot. The font was garish and the image of a skeleton with a microphone in his hand was pixelated with a watermark across the centre.

“You’re a musician?” Hannibal asked, plucking a flyer into his hand.

“Yeah, we do screamo. It’s not your kind of thing,” the cashier replied, with a derisive smirk.

“Oh, I’d have to disagree.” Hannibal said pleasantly, as he folded the flyer and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat.

Will joined them then, eyes on the floor, sliding two drinks onto the counter. He’d chosen the same thing for them both; iced tea in glass bottles, with leaves and peaches on the label. It would be too sweet, with an artificial after taste, but given the choices it was likely the only thing Hannibal would have chosen for himself. He watched Will for a moment, wondering if he’d try to talk to the teenager behind the counter, but he didn’t so much as raise his head. The cashier cleared his throat again, as if there were something stuck in it. Hannibal would help him with that. He’d slice him from chin to collar and scoop everything out.

After paying, they stepped out into the small parking lot to find another car had pulled up alongside Hannibal’s. It was a cherry red fiesta, and a single woman stepped out of it with a yapping poodle-cross in her arms.

“Um, excuse me, I’m so sorry-” she said, placing the dog down beside her where it instantly became subdued and stuck itself to her side, “-I don’t suppose you know the best way to get to Belmont lake from here?”

She crossed the carpark and tried to smile at Will first, who no doubt looked less imposing, before realising that was a lost cause and turning to Hannibal.

Placing his hands in his pockets, in order to look more relaxed than he felt, Hannibal snuck a quick glance at Will before he answered. It was one thing, to test his companion in the relative solitude of a side-road service station with only an insolent teenage cashier as an opponent. Now though, Will had two witnesses; one of whom had approached him and all but offered him a window to confess that he was not here of his own volition. Hannibal felt coiled, ready to wreak havoc if needs be. He could kill the woman easily, likely with enough time to get to the cashier before he had the chance to call for help. Will, however, would have ample opportunity to get away; and likely enough to collect the woman’s car keys and peel down the road and towards the nearest emergency telephone.

“We’re not local, I’m afraid,” Hannibal said with a practiced smile.

Will stood silently at his side, making no move to look at the woman. His eye-contact, it seemed, was something Hannibal alone was entitled to.

“Oh, that’s a shame. Maybe I can ask for help inside,” the woman replied, with a polite smile of her own.

Will was looking at the space beside the woman’s legs, where two black eyes were peering out from a mess of tightly coiled fur. Before Hannibal had a chance to reply, the tiny creature emerged with its body low to the ground and began sniffing cautiously at Will’s ankle.

“She likes you,” the woman laughed, pleasantly.

Will’s eyes darted to Hannibal quickly, before he stooped down and offered his hand. Hannibal watched his throat bob and his eyes go wide with raw emotion, as the dog butted Will’s knuckles with its muzzle before darting his tongue out to lap at his hand. It was something of a sacred moment for his captive, Hannibal realised. He noted the way Will kept his poorly healed fingers folded against his palm, concealed from scrutiny. He didn’t want Hannibal to see a need to cut the moment short.

“My friend is somewhat of a dog person,” Hannibal offered, not quite able to look away from the half-smile that graced Will’s lips.

Twice now he had referred to Will as his; _his_ friend, _his_ companion. Introducing Will in that light, even to those as insignificant as strangers at a gas station, was infinitely better than possessing him in private. Laying public claim to him, showing him off. Presenting him as the other half of his whole. Never _sharing_ him, he decided, as Will looked up to offer a shy smile to the woman looking down at him and Hannibal felt his hand twitch in his pocket. Just holding him in his hands, cherishing him, only ever allowing others to peek through his fingers and catch a glimpse. Even that was too much of a risk though, when it came to Hannibal’s own social circle. Will would never take a seat of honour at his dinner parties. He would never sit beside Hannibal as an operatic masterpiece reduced him to tears.

“Apologies, but we need to be on our way,” Hannibal said, thankful that he was able to stop his bitterness from seeping into his tone; at least to the woman’s ears. Will flinched minutely and stood to follow him to the car.

“Are you going to kill that cashier?” He asked, when they were back on the road, opting to look from his window rather than at the man behind the wheel. 

“Yes,” Hannibal replied, matter of fact. “He was discourteous.”

Will hummed; a resolved if distantly sad sort of sound. 

“And the woman?” He asked, turning this time to take in Hannibal’s profile.

“She was not discourteous,” Hannibal pointed out.

Will’s shoulder’s relaxed and he lay his head back against his headrest. Hannibal couldn’t help but resent his relief.

“Besides,” he said, “I never got her name.”

It was always best to keep his dear Will guessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, if you're interested, Limerence is now being re-posted. A chapter a day. :)


	19. Heliophilia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heliophilia - The desire to stay in the sun.

Will had been wrong when he’d assumed Hannibal would keep him on some rarely used private property. The hotel he’d chosen was clearly an upper-class establishment; nestled into the corner of a plaza rather than set into the strip of beachside resorts that tourists flocked to. Will was thankful for the quiet ambience of the foyer and adjoining bar. He expected the patrons to leer at him as though he didn’t belong; but he was dressed as they were, and he slipped passed them unnoticed. He was the shadow Hannibal had wanted at his heel.

Their rooms were sleek and modern but every bit as rich and dark as Hannibal’s preferred aesthetic. He’d paid for two equally appointed bedrooms, joined by a living space with a kitchenette. Will stood awkwardly and watched as Hannibal unpacked several containers of food, from the cooler he had brought with them, and stacked them in the integrated fridge. He could feel his heart rate increase and folded his arms over his chest as he rocked up onto the balls of his feet. He hadn’t been in a space like this, even before he was taken, and it seemed like this new environment – and the new expectations with it - would be difficult to navigate.

“Perhaps a drink at the bar?” Hannibal suggested, after contemplating his stance for several drawn out seconds.

Will swallowed and shook his head. His situation would be much less bearable with so many free people mulling around him. It would hurt so much more. It was an oddly daring thing for Hannibal to suggest and that nagged at Will, though he couldn’t locate the exact cause of his concern and so dismissed it. 

“Please,” he murmured, “I don’t think I can.”

“Sit, Will,” Hannibal ordered gently, motioning to the chairs at the full-length window.

The command was oddly welcome. If Hannibal just told him how to survive this, he wouldn’t have to worry about slipping up. He let out a breath he hadn’t know he was holding and sank into one of the plush tub chairs that was positioned to look out over the city lights. Despite the view, Will chose to look back over his shoulder and watch Hannibal. When his captor came to join him in the opposite chair, Will realised he was shaking. He felt the other man’s eyes on him but couldn’t bear to meet them. Instead, he kept his eyes on Hannibal’s polished shoes.

“Will, you’re not acting like yourself,” Hannibal noted.

“I’m sorry,” Will murmured, wringing his hands in his lap.

It had been a long time since his captor’s disapproval had stirred such an acute twist of terror in him. He tried to remind himself he’d wanted this, to leave the familiar playing ground of Hannibal’s house behind. At the time, empowered by his blood-bathed victory, Will had imagined this would be liberating. He had been horribly wrong.

The first new environment Will could remember, was the piercingly bright perdition of preschool; every wall plastered in distracting displays. There was nowhere for Will to look and let his mind go quiet. He hadn’t known the rules, but apparently concealing himself in the dim relief of the supply closet was against them. When the teacher had finally found him, Will had looked right at her and her frustration had pummelled into him as she dragged him out into the unbearable clangour of the classroom. She bade him to sit in the sandpit and the grit sifted into his shoes, sat under his fingernails and made his skin crawl. Each school after that, and there had been many, came with two contrasting sets of demands. He was ridiculed by teachers when his mind wandered against his will and tripped by peers in the hall if he didn’t hunch small enough; or sometimes if he hunched too small and made a target of himself. He learned of course, but only after a period of ostracization and internalised ridicule, and by that point his father would move them on to the next town. During high school, Will had finally become adept at reading what people wanted and making a mirror of himself. He had no desire to be sociable, nor did he have any social graces to speak of, but as long as the person he was speaking to did, then he’d get by. Then he’d been taken, and nothing he had forced himself to learn could have prepared him. He’d survived of course, where so many others had perished, but it was only that; survival. Not living. Then Hannibal had taken him and tied him to a bed, left him to stew under hellish white light and had expected him to be _interesting_ ; to sing for his supper.

Sitting across from Hannibal, with the jagged city skyline like sharp teeth in his peripheral, Will felt as though he were trapped in a liminal state. He knew with certainty that people were mulling about in the rooms around them and yet was equally assured of the fact that they existed in some realm outside of his reach. He had the freedom of looking down at the neon gridded nightlife, as though he were a part of it, while in reality he was as close to it as he was to the vague constellations that existed above the light pollution. He was living a half-life, only because Hannibal saw fit to keep him that way, and yet he wasn’t restrained nor was he cautioned into silence with threats of murdering innocents. He had absolutely no idea what to do.

“Stand up,” Hannibal said, and Will was obeying before he’d even considered what that command could mean, what Hannibal expected him to sing this time.

He trembled on the spot, glistening under a sheen of his own sweat. He hadn’t removed his coat or scarf, Hannibal hadn’t told him to, and now he could feel patches of it forming beneath the fabric. Hannibal watched him silently and Will knew that, if he was going to learn the rules for this new environment, he would have to watch him back. He couldn’t remember if that was allowed. There had definitely been _someone_ who hurt him for assuming it was okay to meet their eyes, but Will’s head was swimming and he couldn’t remember who.

“Sit down,” Hannibal said, and again Will obeyed.

He heard Hannibal hum and kept his head ducked. Bile was rising in his throat.

“I feel we’ve taken several steps backward,” Hannibal murmured, his voice soft but the words damning.

“I’m sorry,” Will whispered, upright and stiff as a sculpture in his chair. His stomach lurched. 

“Stop that.” Hannibal ordered, but his voice was still level and he didn’t sound aggravated. He didn’t sound like anything, really.

“I –,” Will cut his apology short and failed to find anything to say in its place. He felt like he would choke if he tried.

“You’re having a panic attack, Will.”

“I don’t mean to” Will gulped, bringing his hands to his chest, sure his ribs were snapping and bending into his heart; piercing the palpitating muscle.

He’d been doing so much better; his night terrors were, at worse, muted versions of what they had been before and, at best, non-existent. During the day, he was even better still. An insidious voice whispered; _you’re institutionalised, agoraphobic, you don’t even want to get away._

Hannibal rose from his chair and grasped hold of Will’s face firmly so that he had nowhere to look but into his fond yet reptilian gaze. Will let his eyes dart over Hannibal’s uncannily caring expression for several moments before he was tugged into an embrace in which he gasped and shuddered and began to sob. His captor brought a hand to the back of his head and pressed Will’s face into the sturdy line of his shoulder. Will was vaguely aware that he was being shushed. The tightness in his chest had spread into a sharp pain at the centre of his back, and his pulse throbbed in his temples in a way that made his vision tunnel out in front of him. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, trying to subdue his own trembling, he allowed himself to fold into his captor’s arms. He was a puppet, strings overused and worn to nothing. It was that train of thought that saved him; the acknowledgement of Hannibal as the puppet _master_.

When he whispered; “I’m rather proud of you,” Will pulled himself away to stand unsteadily on his own two feet.

“I don’t need your _pride_ ,” he spat, and imagined that the words would pack more of a punch if he weren’t forced to wipe his nose with his sleeve as he spoke.

“There, that’s better,” Hannibal murmured.

Will felt his face crumble. Hannibal liked him hurting and happy and hurling insults, and it was this unconditional affection that meant Will could never win. He would never be safe, for Hannibal was the type of monster that viewed possession and poetry in the same light.

“I thought you might try to leave-” Hannibal said suddenly, sinking back down into his own chair, “-when we first entered the room. You seemed uncertain of something. I began to wonder if your fleeting taste of freedom today had spurred you into action; that perhaps you were waiting for an opportunity to be in public again, so you could call for help. If you’d agreed to join me at the bar, I think I might have killed you.”

Every second in Hannibal’s company was a test.

“The thought didn’t even cross my mind,” Will croaked, the words leaving him slowly as he reluctantly accepted the truth in them. “I want to kill the next one and I thought I made it clean, _unreservedly,_ that I want your help.”

Will didn’t sit so much as fall back into his own chair. He was slowly gaining control of his breathing, though his hands continued to tremble in his lap. He considered his captor, reclined opposite him to give the impression of nonchalance. Will though, who had no one in his life with whom to familiarise himself but the man before him, had become quite adept at prying back his various fronts and seeing what was stewing beneath. Hannibal was stressed. It was visible in the way his fingertips pushed too hard into the arms of his chair, the way his shoulders sat perhaps an inch higher than normal, and in the fact that he had let his eyes flicker to the door during Will’s earlier panic. A stressed cannibal, much like an undomesticated animal, was far more dangerous than a relaxed one.

“How often do you consider killing me?” Will asked, needing the answer more than wanting it.

“Most days,” Hannibal admitted, “It’s never the preferred course of action,” he added, perhaps to ease the blow. 

Will nodded and then tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling and finally reigning his anxiety in. He himself didn’t have an aching desire to kill Hannibal, but he wasn’t opposed to it. When his captor’s interest waned, Will would do what needed to be done. Since that first stormy night in the old basement, he had been manoeuvring himself into the best position for escape. If he had lost parts of himself along the way, it would be worth it when he finally emerged from his gilded cage and reclaimed his life in its entirety.

When he looked back at Hannibal, the man’s eyes were downcast and his lips thin. He looked, for the first time, _tired_. Will took a final, steadying breath and stood. He crossed the distance between them and placed a tentative hand on Hannibal’s shoulder.

“I’ll make the tea,” he said, quietly asserting himself while allowing Hannibal to relax into the fact that Will was taking it upon himself to follow their routine.

The floral scent of chamomile was familiar and made everything shift a little closer to comfort. Will poured a liberal cup for both of them and returned to the tub chair to drink it in Hannibal’s company.

“Despite everything,” Will murmured, “you’ve been kinder to me than most of the people in my life.”

Hannibal’s brow furrowed and he seemed sincere when he replied; “How awfully unfair.”

Will wasn’t suggesting that Hannibal was the nicest person he had known- not by any stretch of the imagination. He simply meant that every genuine kindness from Hannibal was somehow more profound than the grandest of gestures from anyone else. In the average person, acts of goodwill came from habit and socialisation; the learning of right and wrong. Hannibal had abandoned such concepts and so his smallest acts of kindness came from something internal and unfathomable. So rare was Hannibal’s true tenderness, the kind free from ulterior motives, that one could only ever hope to receive it if they held a place of boundless devotion in the man’s eyes. As with anything boundless though, Hannibal’s devotion was destructive.

Will looked up at the empty, grey sky and wondered what it was going to feel like when he no longer lived as the object of Hannibal’s obsession. It left an equally empty, grey feeling in his chest. He imagined that what he felt for Hannibal, vague and contradictory though it was, he would have inevitably ended up feeling in any number of alternate contexts.

“It is unfair,” he agreed, taking another sip of tea.

ꭥ

Later, Hannibal ran a bath while Will sat watching, perched on the sleek, marble counter opposite. 

“How would you do it?” he asked, and Hannibal didn’t need him to elaborate.

He turned to watch Will through the steam, stripped down to his shirt and trousers, the heels of his bare feet brushing against the cabinet below. As he grew in confidence so too did Hannibal’s satisfaction in his company.

“It would be slow,” he replied, uncapping a small jar of dried lavender and upending it into the water without looking, “I don’t think I could let you leave me in any haste.”

Will hummed, feet going still.

“You’d need to cherish every moment, draw it out, bask in it,” he discerned.

The water burbled pleasantly from behind Hannibal. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and dipped his hand in to check the temperature.

“Like a lion basks in the sun,” he agreed, dispersing the clump of lavender with the swish of his arm.

Despite his actions, his eyes were stilled glued to his charming companion; a picture of curly-haired, wide eyed innocence; sat like a child while discussing the ins and outs of his own murder. He seemed to be turning Hannibal’s words over in his head for a moment, then his eyes turned sharp.

“A lion doesn’t snuff out the sun,” he challenged, dropping down to the floor and testing the water himself, as though unwilling to trust Hannibal’s judgement in the matter.

Hannibal felt his eyes crinkle. He raised his brow as Will leaned over to turn the hot tap another centimetre or so but didn’t stop him from grasping at slithers of control where he could get them.

“I imagine they would, if they could reach it.” Hannibal purred, crossing the room to stand across from Will again, leaning back against the counter. “Like a housecat, pawing at a lazer. Their instinct to rend would overcome them and they’d have nothing to do but lie amongst the dying embers of their own destruction before their world turned black.”

Just like that, the sharpness in Will’s eyes was gone. Hannibal realised he had never quite put his feeling for Will into words until that point. After a long silence, Will cleared his throat.

“I’m going to get in now,” he said, voice wavering.

Hannibal smiled.

“By all means,” he motioned to the tub.

When Will glanced pointedly to the door and then back to Hannibal, he took it upon himself to state the obvious.

“There’s a lock on the inside of this door, Will.” He said, “and a mirror, as well as an entire sheet of glass separating the shower.”

He watched Will deflate but was relieved when it wasn’t followed by a stronger adverse reaction. Instead, his eyes scanned the complementary bottles lining the side of the tub until landing on a bubble bath. Hannibal’s nose crinkled as Will poured the entire contents into the water; the scent of Rosalina clashing terribly with the lavender. It began to froth immediately, a handful of suds tipping over the edge and onto the bathroom floor. Hannibal turned away so Will could undress in relative privacy and then joined him at the side of the tub once he was submerged. His pale skin was turning ruddy, he should have trusted Hannibal’s superior bath-running abilities. He had the entire process down to an art. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get better,” Will murmured into the silence, followed by a heavy sigh.

“I think you will,” Hannibal said, voice soft as he knelt beside the tub to be on Will’s level.

Will sank a little further into the water, as if the sight of his shoulders was indecent with Hannibal so close.

“Why?” He asked, looking down at where his knees protruded from the bubbles.

“I’m an optimist.”

Will let out a sharp, nasal exhale and his lips spread into a tilted half-smile.

“You’re a hedonist,” he said.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Hannibal insisted, taking the shampoo bottle in hand.

“Recovery isn’t a straight line,” he said, tipping the creamy product out into his hands as Will’s eyes shifted the motion uncomfortably, “especially not in these circumstances. Really, your progress has been remarkable.”

“I’m a success story?” Will asked, with a disbelieving laugh.

“My greatest success story,” Hannibal corrected, working the shampoo into Will’s scalp and feeling the moment he turned pliant in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Super sorry, but I'm going to be taking a two or three week break from this fic. Graduating in the midst of a pandemic has really affected my job prospects (none of the schools in my area want newly qualified teachers since the children will all be so behind once they return after Summer). I'm also learning to drive, writing science-fiction, creating an album with my brother, and attempting to cajole six rather angry rats into getting along with one another. It feels like a good time to take a break from this fic, but I promise to return. Thank you all so much for your support and kind comments up until this point. For those of you reading Limerence, it will continue to update daily as it is already written.


	20. Duende

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duende : The mysterious power that a work of art has to deeply move a person.

Hannibal left at eleven the next morning, after tying one end of a thick cord around Will’s door handle and the other around one of the dark, marble columns flanking the entrance to the kitchenette. He had been sure to stash a glass dish of gazpacho and several bottles of water beside the myriad of tiny spirits in Will’s minifridge. After straightening his bow tie, he hung a _do not disturb_ sign on the door to their suite and left to meet Alana at the venue. The hotel Hannibal had chosen was a forty-minute drive from the art gallery in which the charity event would take place. The other psychiatrists in attendance would be staying far closer for convenience, and so he needn’t worry that someone might have seen Will and become curious. Alana had lamented the fact, but Hannibal had cited a lack of available rooms as the cause. She was there before him, always early while he preferred to arrive exactly on time, and was standing in the foyer – a striking picture in an emerald green dress and with the clutch bag Hannibal had selected for her a lifetime ago. When he got home, he would draw her, but not with the same attention to detail that he dedicated to every graphite depiction of his dear Will.

He kissed her hand graciously and lead her through a white, marble archway and into the gallery. The art on display was modern, stylistic and largely concerned with politics. Hannibal preferred timeless beauty, soft strokes and _philosophically_ jarring themes. Still, it would reflect poorly on him to leave the event without purchasing a single piece and so he circled the display room diligently, with Alana on his arm. He chose something Orwellian-inspired and with a colour scheme similar to that of Chairman’s Mao’s communist propaganda. If Big Brother was watching Hannibal, then he clearly wasn’t looking closely enough.

“Where will you hang _that_?” Alana laughed, an eyebrow raised. “Are Leda and the Swan finally getting the boot?”

“ _Never,”_ Hannibal responded, with mock fervour. “This piece is a sacrifice I am making for the good of the cause, but I’d have to be a saint to go as far as to let it see the light of day.”

Alana hid a scandalised laugh behind her hand and then stroked Hannibal’s arm briefly before turning to find her peers. She was quickly replaced by Dr Du Maurier, swaying indolently towards him with a half-empty flute in hand.

“Bedelia,” Hannibal greeted, with the incline of his head, “it is not strictly professional to approach me outside of our sessions.”

“You’re not a patient in the traditional sense,” she responded, “it is not _strictly professional_ to drink wine during therapy.”

Hannibal enjoyed Bedelia’s sardonically charged company. She didn’t possess the same refreshing ambition as Alana, but neither was she plagued with such an impenetrable set of morals.

“Loathe as I am to discuss work, I wanted to run a referral by you, as soon as possible,” he said.

“The same patient you spoke of last week, and the week before?” She asked, arching an eyebrow.

“No, not that patient,” Hannibal said, picturing Will alone in his hotel room, no doubt tugging uselessly at his door, “another. He has not found my therapy helpful and has become quite distrustful.”

Bedelia hummed, finishing her glass and switching it out for a fresh one as a waiter passed by with a champagne-laden tray. The patient in question had paranoia and trouble sleeping. It was a fire that Hannibal had been stoking for weeks, leading their conversations in the direction of solipsism and prescribing inefficient medication. At their last appointment, when the patient suffered a seizure and nearly swallowed his own tongue, Hannibal decided he was ready; a gift for Bedelia, so that she might indulge the darker parts of herself.

“I can make room for him,” she decided after a moment, “is he as interesting as your favourite charge?”

“Not nearly,” Hannibal replied, unable to conceal the affection in his tone.

“Still agoraphobic?” Bedelia asked.

Hannibal had never used that term when discussing Will. He had simply stated that he had a patient who had not been outdoors in several years, and Bedelia had come to her own assumptions. Sometimes it was amusing to offer sins of omission and watch people weave their own stories to fill in the gaps.

“He’s made fantastic progress,” Hannibal responded, “I believe he is travelling across state this very weekend.”

ꭥ

Will sought out the contents of his minifridge more from boredom than anything. He briefly scanned the rows of spirits and reached past them for the gazpacho Hannibal had left for him. He watched people coming and going from his window as he ate – little more than blissfully ignorant dots from his vantage point – and minutes later found himself returning to the fridge and scooping several glass bottles into his lap. As he tipped his head back and finished the fourth, he acknowledged that he was not coping well with this facsimile of freedom. He had tried his door several minutes after Hannibal left, wondering how he had sealed it so firmly, and had then fallen back onto his bed and stared at the panelled ceiling for a long stretch of time. There was a deep ache in Will. He could forget it when more visceral pain took over, and ignore it while in Hannibal’s company, but when alone it was the most discernible part of himself. He felt hollowed, yearning; reminiscent of the melancholy lament of minor chords. It was as physical as it was intangible, and Will suffered it like the nostalgic torment of a phantom limb. It was loneliness, and it choked him.

He returned to the fridge, emptied it of its contents and then stumbled back against the wall; sliding down and curling in on himself on the floor. The spirits scorched his throat and made his eyes water, but the ethanol made his face numb and blurred the sharp edges of his new prison. He spared a glance to the empty, toppled bottles surrounding him and thought of the expense. This cause him to laugh in a way that shook his entire body until threatened by nausea. He swallowed sour bile and watched the final bottle fall from his hand and roll across the hardwood floor. He wondered if Hannibal would be angry with him. Not enough to kill him, but perhaps enough to raid his room and confiscate his distractions as though he were a grounded child. He chuckled again but this time it had a hoarse, downcast quality; closer to a sob.

ꭥ

Perhaps an hour into the event, Hannibal excused himself to use the restroom and noticed a second archway, into a gallery that appeared to be open to the public. The paintings on display were more eclectic than those on offer in the hall reserved for the event and he perused them with genuine pleasure – more than happy to leave his own social circle behind. One piece in particular caught his eye; a sombre oil painting of a small child on a dirt embankment; clothes torn and tattered with a young spaniel under one arm. The clouds in the background were rendered in heavy, foreboding strokes and the child’s eyes were doleful and resigned. Once more he found himself thinking of Will as a child, only this time he longed to go back and abduct him from a boatyard long before the world had a chance to fail him so completely. He didn’t purchase it, for he was certain Will would not appreciate the comparison to the pale peasant child, but he did commit it to memory; from the edge of black water in the foreground to the rouge blush on the child’s cheeks.

Hannibal resolved to complete his commitments to Alana as quickly as could be considered polite and then make his excuses. This farce had been the perfect alibi, but he had not derived the pleasure he might have, had he had another at his side. 

ꭥ

Will groaned, long since finished drinking, but inebriation continuing to creep up on him regardless. It had been years since he had had more than a single glass of Hannibal’s wine or one of the bottles of beer his previous keepers spared him when they wanted him both pliant and present at once. The door to their suite clicked open and shut and Will winced. A moment later, he heard shuffling outside of his room and then the bedroom door opened. There was an indeterminate amount of time in which Hannibal stood in the doorway and observed him with a guarded blankness. Will broke the silence with a hiccup and Hannibal smiled with his whole face and came to crouch before him. It was not unlike the positions in which they first met; though Will was beyond intoxicated and Hannibal was quite amused by the performance.

“Oh dear,” Hannibal said, with crinkled eyes and no concern at all.

It was the most open Will had seen him. No need for his guard to be up now that Will’s was non-existent. He returned Hannibal’s youthful smile with a shaky grin of his own and then turned to press his face against the wall, to stop his head from lolling.

“Thanks for the gazpacho,” he mumbled, scrunching his eyes shut when the room began to spin.

“Let’s hope you keep it down,” Hannibal replied, taking hold of Will’s upper arms and hoisting him up to stand.

With a disgruntled sound, Will stumbled forward and clung to him like a limpet – depending heavily on Hannibal’s guidance through the minefield of empty bottles. Hannibal sat him at the edge of the bed and then turned to collect them up.

“M’sorry,” Will slurred, slumping a little.

Hannibal, dropping the bottles into the bin in the corner of the room, beamed over his shoulder at Will and then crossed the room to sit perhaps a foot away from him on the bed. Will swayed where he sat.

“I’m drunk,” he explained, as if it weren’t blatantly evident.

“It would seem so,” Hannibal agreed, leaning towards him to pat the side of his face. “Would you like something to eat?”

Will did his best to focus on the other’s face and wondered if he were imagining the literal twinkle in his eye. He murmured something that could have been _‘people-butter and jelly sandwiches’_ and flopped back onto the bed, with a loud sigh. The mattress shifted as Hannibal stood and, not long after, Will was being pulled upright and the rim of a bottle was pressed against his lips.

“What brought this on?” Hannibal asked pleasantly.

Will swallowed a mouthful a water and pulled back to say; _‘I was lonely’_ but what came out instead was; “I missed you.”

Hannibal blinked once, and Will blinked back at him.

“I was starting to feel better,” Will muttered, burying his face in his hands, “but I think I might feel worse than ever now.”

“As is the nature of recovery,” Hannibal said with a nod, having regained his composure.

Will peered through his fingers at him as he reclaimed his spot of the edge of the bed.

“Hannibal, it hurts,” he whispered.

“I know,” Hannibal replied, just as quietly.

Will was relieved when he didn’t cry. Instead, he curled in on himself a little tighter, crossing his arms across his torso as if hugging himself.

“Do you know what skin hunger is, Will?” Hannibal asked suddenly.

Will grimaced.

“Like for pork rinds?” He asked, with another hiccup “people rinds?”

Hannibal shook his head, but with a smile.

“A human’s need for physical contact is as vital and innate as their need for food and water,” Hannibal explained. “One can be as starved to touch as for sustenance.”

Will swallowed harshly.

“What does it feel like?” He asked, rocking a little.

“A barrage of cortisol,” Hannibal said, after a moment of thought. “Frayed nerves reaching out and receiving nothing in return.”

“Suffocating?” Will asked.

“The need to touch and be touched is akin to the need to breathe.”

Trembling on the spot, Will shook his head.

“I don’t need to be touched,” he whispered, “never again.”

“Not like that,” Hannibal agreed.

Silence reigned over them.

Through the fog of inebriation, Will replayed Hannibal’s words in his head. _Reaching out and receiving nothing in return._ He was, Will realised with quite some delay, speaking from experience. Will had always been able to understand, but to _be understood_ was something unattainable. Or so he had thought. With a stuttered breath, he closed the distance between them, inch by painfully slow inch, and leant to rest the side of his body against Hannibal’s. It hurt like popping a shoulder back into its socket, he knew from experience. The perpetual agony suddenly reaching a crescendo, a white-hot pain, and then dissipating into numbness. A sharp jolt from an exposed wire and then the charged tingling that follows. The moment he let himself find comfort in Hannibal was more painful than he could have imagined, but that agony lasted a millisecond and was replaced with cautious bliss.

Hannibal tensed beside him, and then melted in a similar fashion; outstretching one arm to wrap lightly around Will’s shoulders and pressing his cheek into a mop of brown curls. Reaching across himself, Will sought the hand holding him, fumbling to thread their fingers together. Hannibal’s hand was warm and dry and gentle while Will’s was clammy and gripping tight; a cast out sailor, clinging ardently to rope around his waist. Neither man spoke. Everything in that moment they could communicate with touch alone.

* * *

Thomas Gainsborough 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know there’s this trope where Will and Hannibal are holed up in a hotel and Will gets drunk and irritates Hannibal. I started to write it that way, but then I realised how much Hannibal would love being confronted with an inebriated Will. I mean, he’s the one who told him he’d be more comfortable if he took a chill pill (exact quote, right there). Then I thought about Hannibal’s childish joy every time Will does something socially unacceptable (e.g sass someone or bite someone’s face). Finally, he wants Will to be his true self – well, what better way to achieve that than to strip him of his inhibitions? (Hey, remember that time he got Abigail to do drugs?) Plus, Hannibal’s insufferably happy 90% of the time regardless – unless he’s away from Will – we just don’t see it when he’s got that pesky person suit on.


	21. Coalesce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coalesce: To unite, grow or come together to form one whole.

Will was sick the next morning; body wracked with pain from all of the heaving, throat rubbed raw by his own stomach acid. He had taken some small relief in waking alone. Hannibal had left him after Will had, at some indeterminable point, fallen asleep in his arms. This gave him a good twenty minutes of privacy in which he could expel the poison he’d laced his own blood with, before Hannibal slipped into the bathroom and left a bottle of water beside him. There was a hot breakfast waiting for him at the kitchenette counter – relatively greasy by Hannibal’s standards. He groaned his thanks and forced it down, wincing against the morning sun until the other man sighed and drew the curtains.

“In a matter of hours, you’ll need to be relatively alert,” he reminded Will, eyes mirthful over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Mmm hmm,” Will agreed, before taking a generous gulp of his own.

Truly, Hannibal was to do most of the work. Their victim had no doubt connected the dots between Will’s disappearance and the death of his accomplices. If the man he suspected of wreaking bloody vengeance appeared at his door, he’d be far more difficult to take alive. An unsuspecting stranger, however, would more likely be able to drug him and stow him away in the trunk of the car without too much fuss.

They left shortly after breakfast, Will clutching two chilled bottles of water to his chest. His head throbbed dully but breakfast and coffee had helped. There was some small liberation to be found in the fact that Will himself had _chosen_ to drink to excess. He ignored the vitriolic little voice that hissed the suggestion that the resulting hangover was evidence of the fact that Will was not ready to be making his own decisions after having them made for him for so long. Hannibal took care of checking them out, and his efficient and polite persona meant that very few people spared a glance to Will, so wrapped up were they in the good doctor’s presence. It was not unpleasant to leave the hotel behind; it had been an all together overwhelming experience and had left Will more than a little disenchanted with the outside world. When he slipped from Hannibal’s grasp, he planned to find somewhere safe and quiet to settle while he took back control of his own life.

They drove in silence for a long while. Will gave every impression of watching the stretch of road before them while secretly observing Hannibal in his peripheral. The lines around his eyes were softer than usual. He appeared quiet and content. It was unfair, Will decided, for a man who took pleasure in killing and cannibalising to appear _soft_. The gratitude Will felt for this improved version of captivity would be far easier to stem if Hannibal wore his maleficence on his sleeve. Will wished his captor could be decent enough to conform to physiognomy and tried to picture him with a hooked, wart-ridden nose or a heavy, gnarled brow. It didn’t fit though, and Will was forced to acknowledge the fact that he found something unashamedly beautiful in Hannibal’s true nature. Could he envision Hannibal as something dark, looming and fearsome? Absolutely. But meagre and detestable? Not at all.

Those descriptors best fit the man they were on their way to retrieve. He was something to be obliterated like woodworm or crushed beneath a heel like a roach. When he was gone, the world would be less foul. He could not say the same about Hannibal. Will would kill Hannibal if it would guarantee his freedom, but it would sit heavy on his conscience; like poaching a pride of lions. His world be safer, but far less beautiful.

“I’m aware this trip has not been as cathartic as you had hoped,” Hannibal said suddenly, pulling off of the highway far earlier than expected.

Will blinked himself back to the present.

“The cathartic part comes next,” he replied, taking a sip of water when the transition from smooth highway to poorly maintained sideroads stirred his nausea. “Hannibal, where are we going?”

Neither man missed the hint of anxiety in his voice. Will had been so caught up in his own thoughts that morning that he had not stopped to think that Hannibal’s silence might be borne from displeasure or that the softness of his features might be the result of coming to terms with a difficult, if liberating, decision. Will had drank himself into oblivion, no doubt costing the man an unholy amount, and had left a mess for the other to clean. Perhaps Hannibal meant to drive him somewhere quiet and kill him. Perhaps he was dissatisfied with Will’s lack of gratitude; his inability to find the gift of the wider world cathartic. This train of thought was exacerbated when Hannibal continued to travel further and further from civilization; turning eventually onto a stretching dirt road that cut through a thick, green copse.

“Hannibal?” Will asked again, voice quieter than before.

“There is a lake here, I think you’ll like it.” Hannibal said pleasantly, though Will could not help but add _as a final resting place_ to the end of his sentence.

When they pulled into a small gravel carpark, surrounded by a dense thicket of bushes and trees, Will was mildly relieved to see another car in the otherwise vacant spot. Of course, Hannibal had once threatened to kill an entire houseful of dinner guests…

“Will,” Hannibal said gently, and impossibly his face appeared even softer than before.

Will could feel that his own eyes were wide when they met his captors and could taste copper where he had bitten through his lip. Hannibal reached across and took one of Will’s hands into his own.

“We’re stopping for lunch and fresh air.”

Will nodded mutely and squeezed the hand holding his in thanks.

There was a beaten track heading in the opposite direction from the one in which they had approached by car. After retrieving his cooler from the back seat, Hannibal lead Will through another small stretch of woodland and out into the clearing. There was in fact a vast body of bright water, dotted with geese and framed in places by clusters of swaying reeds. A couple, now doubt to whom the other car belonged, sat on a picnic mat on the other side of the lake and Hannibal, mirroring them, set the cooler down beneath a tree.

“A simple fare I’m afraid,” he announced, taking a seat and unpacking a range of finger food.

Will heard him speaking as if from a distance, eyes pinned to the gentle rippling of the lake’s surface. A part of him wanted to walk out into it, until he was fully submerged, and never return. He smiled as he imagined the cool, black water enveloping him. When he turned, he found Hannibal looking up at him in much the same way he had just been eyeing the water.

“Is this a more pleasant experience than the hotel?” He asked.

“Yes,” Will breathed, looking over behind Hannibal as a squirrel scurried up the thick trunk of a tree, “Thank you.”

He joined Hannibal in the grass then. It was as if they were in the garden, a part of their normal routine, only all of the walls had fallen down around them. Between them sat an array of brilliant canapes; bright orange bruschetta, carpaccio arranged liked the petals of a flower, blinis with a vibrant beetroot puree, and an array of tartlets.

“Simple,” Will repeated with a smile, wondering if the carpaccio was their last victim and eating it regardless.

“In that there are very few ingredients and it took a relatively short time to make this morning while you were otherwise indisposed,” Hannibal said, raising a tartlet to his mouth.

Will felt his cheeks colour. The way in which Hannibal addressed Will’s mistakes and shortcomings was another impossibly pleasant part of him. Will had thrown up several times over the years – it would have been far more often had his stomach spent less time vacant – and the words and actions that had greeted him when the mess had been discovered were far from _polite._ He thought about how Hannibal’s kindness had led to gentle, harmless touching and his cheeks turned redder still.

“You look quite lovely when you blush.”

Will choked on a mouthful of food and shook his head fervently. He brought a hand up to his mouth as he composed himself and was glad that Hannibal would consider it improper to talk with a mouthful of food. He had no idea what he would say. Avoiding Hannibal’s gaze, he glanced out across the lake at the couple who sat just out of earshot with an altogether less impressive spread of food before them. They were smiling, one resting their head on the other’s shoulder. Will wondered if he and Hannibal appeared to be just another couple, or if Hannibal’s cool calculation and Will’s nervous disposition were evident to outsiders. He doubted it, as the couple weren’t rushing to his rescue. It didn’t matter. Today was the best day he had had in years and he made the conscious decision to allow himself that; to enjoy the view, the breeze and the food – even the company – without forcing himself to confront his real role in Hannibal’s life.

When they were finished eating, they left promptly – revenge wouldn’t enact itself after all – and Will did his best not to drag his feet. Hannibal checked that Will’s headache had eased and then turned the radio to the classical station. They talked a little on the second stretch of the journey; Will asked Hannibal about the charity event and was secretly pleased when his captor reported he had not enjoyed it nearly as much as he had hoped. They reached their destination more quickly than Will was really prepared for.

The auto-repair was the run-down, irreputable type, with well-used cars for sale out front and sheets of scrap metal peering out from behind the building. The petrol pump was leaking and an ancient carwash donned a large spray painted ‘out of order’ sign. Hannibal pulled up perhaps twenty feet from the open garage and Will was slightly shocked to see their intended victim hunched over the bonnet of a Vauxhall. Just there for the taking. He had imagined if would be more difficult; perhaps he wouldn’t be working alone, or they would need to wait for other customers to leave first. Hannibal passed Will an atlas to hold high in front of his face should the mechanic look over, though the windows were tinted and Will was sure Hannibal would take the man’s full attention much like he had done with every other person they had come to pass on their excursion.

Their victim stood straight and looked around, supposedly for the wrench which he found off to the right. Will’s nausea returned in full force as he took it in hand. This was different; seeing one of his abusers free and armed. This wasn’t a sweating, naked, vulnerable man sliding from a body bag like a foetus from an embalmed corpse.

“We hold the power, Will,” Hannibal murmured beside him. “He’s beneath you. Merely a stain to be scrubbed from the surface of the planet.”

With a nod, Will forced his shoulders back and took a deep breath. 

Hannibal slipped from the car then, closing the car door silently as not to draw too much attention to his vehicle or its occupant. Will raised the atlas and felt like a nervous child at a restaurant, hiding behind a menu. Over the top of it, he watched Hannibal approach the mechanic in a placid manner; overly amicable. From the car, it was impossible to hear what he was saying, but Will watched with amusement as his shrewd and stoic captor raised his hands in an exaggerated shrug and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. His gestures were practised, not his own, but they were executed perfectly and soon the mechanic was nodding along with whatever tale Hannibal was spinning.

Will would have relaxed then, if he had not noticed their intended victim’s grip tighten around the wrench the second Hannibal inched toward him. From behind, it was impossible to tell whether Hannibal had noticed it as well.

Hannibal made a show of looking distractedly around him. Any prey worth its salt would expect a predator to keep them pinned in sight. Despite the doctor making every effort to appear harmless, their victim’s grip around the wrench didn’t loosen. Will watched it intently as it caught the sun. He could hear the impact of steel against flesh and bone as if he was still on the receiving end of it. He willed the mechanic to drop it, but it was kept firmly in hand.

After a moment, Hannibal stepped forward again, crossing the threshold into the garage. The mechanic shuffled away once more; doing his best to appear nonchalant as he maintained the distance between them. He was suspicious and flighty. The death of his accomplices was clearly at the forefront of his thoughts.

Will peered past him, to the wall he was edging towards. There was a rusted, red door set into the brick – no doubt leading into the jagged expanse of the scrap yard beyond. As Hannibal took another step forward and the dance continued, it became clear to Will what was about to transpire. He could no longer see the mechanic from behind Hannibal’s broad frame, which boded well. It meant he could exit the car unseen. Not trusting himself to close the door with the same eery silence Hannibal had managed, Will crossed the centre console and exited through the driver’s side, leaving the door open. He stooped for a moment behind the body of the car, to ensure he had not been spotted, and then skirted away from it and around the building; staying low as he went.

As he approached the back of the building, he knew instantly that he had made the right choice. The yard sported multiple exits. If the mechanic had used the wrench to slow Hannibal down, he could have escaped once and for all. A rusted exhaust pipe was leant up against the wall and Will took it in two hands, testing the weight. Confident that it was capable of a decent amount of damage, he stood beside the door with his back to the brick. It was clear, from the way the doorframe was set into the wall, that the door opened inwards.

Will could hear the deep, smooth timbre of Hannibal voice and the peaking response of the mechanic. Both voices grew closer, and Will was sure that Hannibal was aware of the precarious situation he had found himself in. Any moment now, he was sure Hannibal would check his surroundings and lunge. Sure enough, a few moments later the voices fell silent behind the door and were then followed by a cacophony of noise; the familiar sounds of a weaponised wrench; a deep grunt from Hannibal; and the clatter of metal tools hitting cement. Will swallowed his rising panic, held the wrench high and swung with every ounce of his strength just as the red door swung open.

It connected with a _thunk_ against the mechanic’s forehead and sent him sprawling onto the gravel. A muted groan escaped his lips and Will was relieved he hadn’t given him a merciful way out. Their victim was however dazed and seemingly on the edge of unconsciousness. The skin over his temple had split and Will crouched down and gripped the man’s hair tightly so that his head couldn’t fall to the side and spill blood onto the gravel. The less evidence, the better.

Hannibal appeared then, one hand gripping his side and the other supporting his weight against the doorframe.

“Ah, Will,” he said through gritted teeth, “thank you for your assistance.”

Will looked up at him with a raised brow, their victim still firmly in hand and groaning between them. Hannibal pulled the prepped syringe from his pocket and removed the cap.

“Would you care to do the honours?” He asked, holding it out plunger first.

It was yet another show of trust. Will was unsure how many more he could bare; knowing each and every one was leading to the ultimate betrayal. He took it in hand and forced the needle with more force than necessary into the mechanic’s neck.


	22. Finifugal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finifugal - Someone who tries to prolong the final moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm alive! 
> 
> Okay, so my list of excuses goes like this:
> 
> 1) Got a new job  
> 2) Became obsessed with gaming again for awhile  
> 3) Suffered a prolonged case of writer's block  
> 4) Had a few mental health hiccups  
> 5) Lost three pets in as many weeks
> 
> Now though, there has been a Covid outbreak in my place of work and I'm free (forced) to stay home and write for the next two weeks. Absence of wages aside (joys of supply work), this is not a terrible outcome. I may finally get this one finished! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been so incredibly patient with me. I know how frustrating it is waiting for a fic to update and not knowing when, or even if, that's going to happen. This one has been written in bits and pieces over the past two months so I apologise in advance if it seems a little disjointed. I hope to get back into the swing a little more now that I have more time to write. 
> 
> I love you all and I hope you're well. :)
> 
> Oh and PS: They were genuinely meant to start flaying the guy alive, it just didn't happen, so we can all enjoy that in the next chapter.

They flayed him alive, as planned.

Though, upon Hannibal’s suggestion, they first spent a day recovering as Will had no doubt exhausted himself. In truth, venturing out into the world, becoming inebriated, seeking physical comfort from another human, and then bludgeoning someone with an exhaust pipe had had somewhat of a staggering impact on his energy stores. When they returned from their excursion, Will sought permission to spend some time in the study before they settled down for the night, and Hannibal acquiesced and brought him a mug of coffee. There was satisfaction to be found in sipping on the rich blend before the fire while their victim undoubtedly began to stir in the basement; pained and panicked. 

_Let him stew,_ Will thought, _literally and figuratively._

“How are your ribs?” He asked, when Hannibal sat stiffly in the seat nearest his.

The flames cast unflattering shadows across the most concave parts of his face and illuminated the grimace that twisted his lips as he stooped to sit. Will thought of Mictlāntēcutli, the Skull God, which he decided was apt given that that particular deity favoured worship in the form of ritual cannibalism.

“Tender, but not broken,” the other replied, and considered him for long enough that Will swallowed stiffly and ducked his head. “I enjoyed your company this weekend, Will,” he added.

While Will had not quite _enjoyed_ Hannibal’s company, he had relied heavily on the older man’s ability to navigate the world and had been imbued with conflicted relief when he had returned to him in their hotel suite. Hannibal’s company brought with it familiarity and unyielding guidance. Unsure how he could word this revelation in a pleasing way, Will skirted around the fact.

“Thank you for taking me with you,” he settled on, staring intently at flame-licked firewood.

He pictured Hannibal’s skin blistering as he forced his face down into the fire; how his charred skull might split forth and make his likeness to certain Aztec Gods all the more prominent. Perhaps, when they found his body, it would help them see the good doctor for what he was; something vengeful and divine. It was a vivid and grotesque image, and Will shifted in his chair and mentally listed that route to escape as _worst-case_.

“If you’d like, we could go out again. I could show you my office,” Hannibal said, rather unexpectedly and completely ignorant to Will’s dark musings.

Ignoring the rueful twist in his chest, Will forced the corners of his lips to twitch up into his standard, stilted smile and nodded. He looked up at his keeper- at the guarded expression he wore when his heart threatened to fall out onto his sleeve- and looked away just as quickly; past him to the renaissance bust at the far side of the room. It was small, but not insubstantial. It could dent a skull, if dropped from above. He cursed the complexity of Hannibal Lecter, and of his own skewed moral compass, and made an aborted attempt to stand.

“Will?”

_Did he have to say his name like that? Soft and sure and yearning?_

He sank back down, assuming Hannibal wanted him that way but unafraid to have made the mistake. The list of things for which he was required to ask permission had never been less certain, and their dynamic was in a state of constant change, yet he felt as close to safe as any captive could.

“I feel the urge to _pace_ ,” he explained, fingers drumming a muted rhythm into the arm of his chair.

“By all means,” Hannibal said, with a sweeping gesture to the room around them, “though pacing yourself in another sense may be more sensible. Our latest catch isn’t going anywhere, and you could do with some rest.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Will muttered, standing and scanning the room.

Truly, there was nothing more wicked than the way his eyes came to rest upon the letter opener on Hannibal’s desk, or the way his mind responded by flicking through a dozen gory tableaus like a sinister stereoscope. The unnecessarily sharp blade was pointing outwards, and Will began to wonder when Hannibal had begun leaving weaponizable stationary out in the open. He walked past it, to the minibar beyond and gazed down at the neat array of whisky and rum. The decanters were made of the kind of thick, decoratively hand-cut glass that would be difficult to smash – though not impossible. Will swallowed his guilt audibly, in the same way one might struggle to down a large and bitter pill. When his throat clicked, Hannibal looked up at him.

“It doesn’t have to be my office,” he said, and Will furrowed his brow before realising that his captor had returned to their earlier train of conversation.

“I’d like to see it,” came Will’s delayed reply.

He imagined it would be as foreboding as the man’s home, but Will found an unreasonable amount of comfort in the dark-academia slash gothic-noir aesthetic Hannibal chose to shroud himself in. It was a little on the nose maybe, but far removed from the faded and mismatched squalor of his previous prison.

Will looked down at his socked feet. Hannibal had asked him to leave his shoes at the door. Will assumed they’d be gone the next day, and he mourned them. It had seemed such a reasonable request despite the hurt it brought him. In moments of lucidity, Will recognised the barbed wire twined round the burnished gold bars of his cage. While his life was no longer bleak and black, it was steeped in the dark hue of expecting and accepting small hurts as the norm. When Hannibal saw fit to retire, Will would – despite the welcoming warmth of the fire – have no option but to drag himself from it to follow him. Later that night, as the lock to his door clicked with finality, Will would ignore the pang in his chest and take himself to bed.

The day of rest came unbidden; more to Will than to Hannibal who had to leave to tend to his oft spurned patients. After breakfast together, when once again alone in his locked room, Will knelt at the edge of his bed as if in prayer and fished the hook out from the hole in his mattress. As morning eked into noon, he got to work.

ꭥ

During his appointments, each of which felt like an aeon, Hannibal gave serious thought to shortening his workday. Though it would appear as little more than the twitch of an eye to his patients, he was restless and itching to get home. When he finally returned, his door opened into the dark, silent maw of his foyer. It was no different than any other day, only Hannibal’s intuition pawed at him leaving him suddenly alert. He had not felt _nervous_ in decades. In the few times that an event had warranted any such feeling at all; it was usually closer to abject terror. After locking the door, and dropping the key into his inner coat pocket, he ascended the stairs soundlessly and stood for several long seconds outside of Will’s room. He could hear nothing and though this was not out of the ordinary and was certainly no reason for Hannibal to feel unease, he was riddled with it.

Although he was unaware at that point in time, he had sensed something – much like animals sense the shift in the air hours before a blizzard razes their den.

“Will?” he asked, as the door swung silently open, and felt a rush of relief to find him sitting at the window with a book in hand.

“Is it time to go?” Will asked, setting his book aside and looking at Hannibal with wide eyes; both expectant and deliberately deferential.

Will’s easy demeanour was a like electrical tape to Hannibal’s frayed nerves; it remedied his unease temporarily, though something still crackled like static beneath his skin. He dismissed it. Any uncertainty, Hannibal decided, could easily be chalked up to the unpredictability of Will’s reaction to what he had planned for him in his office.

Outside, as the evening sky began to shift from powder blue to grey, Hannibal placed his hand to the small of Will’s back and guided him to the car. Though he didn’t flinch, it was evident that every muscle in his body was pulled taut. Perhaps one day, Will would allow him to work the tension out of his shoulders; knead the pads of his thumbs deep into the tissue and feel it part beneath his touch. He could do it of course, could do any number of things, without Will’s consent. Had he not washed him, without asking? Was there not a time that he had held a straight razor to Will’s throat and watched him tremble under the unwanted ministrations? Hannibal was fairly certain he was above feeling anything like _guilt_ , but as he slid in next to Will with a blank face and open posture, he was at least plagued with the realization that he’d have rather done things differently.

Later, as he watched Will’s timid exploration of his office, he imagined a universe in which he had simply tossed the key to Will’s chains down the stairs to him. One in which he watched on anonymously, as Will built himself back up and forged his own becoming. He’d have found his way into Will’s life eventually- he would never want Will to be free from him – but he was certain now that the younger man had his own, innate, darkness and could have become Hannibal’s more completely if only he’d been allowed to find it on his own. Will’s mind would never be entirely fathomable to Hannibal, though he suspected that Will saw him as distinctly similar to his previous captors in many ways. It made his fingers itch to reach out and hurt him, despite the lack of certainty that it was even the case. He wanted to be as singular in Will’s mind as Will was in his.

“It’s just how I pictured it,” Will murmured, fingers hovering an inch or so above a bronze elk.

He touched nothing, moving through the space like a ghost, and Hannibal found he wanted Will to do the opposite. He could leave footprints across the floor, smudge charcoal sketches with the oils from his hands and then leave black fingerprints scattered over Hannibal’s desk or the priceless antiques. He could rip pages from books, smash mirrors and set the curtains alight and Hannibal would smile and watch on as he left his mark.

“Come,” he said, when Will began to hover with his arms tight around his torso.

He led him to his desk and opened the false-bottomed draw, thankful that the pictures he was after were facing down. While this was selfish in many ways; exposing Will to the printed proof of his past so that it could be burnt and the time before Hannibal obliterated, he did hope Will would find catharsis in watching them curl and blacken amongst the flames. Still, he was aware he could break Will if they didn’t go slowly, and so he picked the pile up and placed it on the desk top face down. 

Of course, Will knew what he was looking at regardless and had already stiffened beside him. Instead of fear, Hannibal saw only fury in his blown pupils when he turned to assess him.

“Why?” Will asked, voice pitched low and severe.

The bow of his lips was threatening to twitch up into a snarl. His twisted fingers had balled into fists and Hannibal felt his pulse tick up. He wondered if Will would strike him. They’d fought before, and it had been glorious.

“I want you to burn them,” Hannibal stated, matter of fact, if a little breathlessly.

Will glared at the stack, his scorching anger so palpable that Hannibal wondered if the photographs might simply combust beneath his stare; explosive embers reflected in cold, blue eyes.

“For me or for you?” Will demanded, still conversely quiet.

There was a warning in his tone; so unlike the ways Will had spoken to him in the past. His anger had expelled his fear and taken over the space left behind. Hannibal wanted to bask in it.

“For me _and_ for you,” he corrected.

Will huffed and met his eyes. Though he did not withdraw, some of the vitriol seemed to leave him.

“I don’t want to look at them,” he said and then, with a strained sort of certainty; _“I won’t_.”

Hannibal inclined his head; he too would not deign to view the images again before their destruction. He turned to stoke the fire so that Will could gather the courage to touch the offending pile on his desk. When he turned back, Will was holding the photographs tightly enough to bend the thick stack in his palm. His hand was shaking, whether from fear or fury Hannibal could not tell.

ꭥ

It had been such a simple blunder. It might not have happened at all if Will’s hands had been steadier. As Hannibal turned to agitate the flames, Will had grasped the pile of photographs so hastily that one foul, faded image slipped from the pile and floated to the ground like something so harmless as a feather. At first it threatened to swallow him, the inky depiction of his dark past opening wide and imbibing itself on Will and his sad facsimile of freedom. It took less than a second though, for the jolt of panic to leave Will as he truly took the picture in. He was not alone in the photograph; the final abuser was looming over him. Funny then, that Will was the one standing above the harmless ink stain of a man now. If he moved his foot two centimetres to the right, he could crush him. It all seemed to solve itself then; Will’s hazy escape plan taking its final form. Before Hannibal had turned back to him, he had scooped the image from the floor and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

Hannibal remained where he was, so that they stood shoulder to shoulder when Will was ready to reduce the past to cinders.

“Is boeuf bourguignon a little too simple for your liking?” He asked, chest tight as he thought about the final meal he would share with his keeper.

The last of the polaroids had scattered into ashen flakes before Hannibal answered.

“I’d eat every one of them raw as long as I had you sat across from me.”


	23. Thantophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thantophobia ~ The fear of losing the one you love.

Will’s time in the garden had coloured him some but, as he descended the basement stairs bathed in the same white light that had once driven him to the edge of madness, his skin took on the radiance of alabaster sculptures under midday sun. Hannibal had gone down first and couldn’t help but compare Will’s entrance to that of the debutantes he had spied through the banister, when he was still young enough to be expected to sleep through such extravagance. Then, he had admired the women’s pearls and poise. Now, he was filled with something that so surpassed admiration it had yet to be given a name.

The pig was prepared, spread-eagle on the steel table and with a sheet below the waist for Will’s benefit. Head strapped more tightly than needed with a thick buckled strap across the forehead, their victim could merely cast his eyes around in panic until they chose to step into view. Hannibal wasted no time on him, studying Will’s reaction instead. He seemed guarded, though certainly calmer than the first time; shoulders back and chin held high so that he was looking down his nose. The harsh bob of his throat gave his nervous anticipation away, but he stepped forward in spite of it and plucked a scalpel from the medical tray.

“What would you like to see first?” Hannibal asked, taking his place on the opposite side of the table.

The pig flinched at the sound of his voice and then let out a low, sorrowful moan when Will answered;

“The tendons, first.”

Feeling the corner of his mouth twitch up of its own accord, Hannibal held out his hand for the scalpel. Will spent a second or two looking at the soft, sensitive skin of his palm with the blade grasped firmly in his own hand before he released it with a quiet exhale. The handle was warm when Hannibal curled his fingers around it.

It wasn’t until he moved to adjust the overhead light, illuminating the inked expanse of pocked and pallid skin, that their victim began to beg in a blubbering sort of way. Beneath the sharp smell of surgical spirit was the tang of sweat and fear. Hannibal had kept this one longer and had not afforded him the dignity of a washbasin. There was a similar cretin, with a worse stench, withering away in Lithuania. He might have kept the rude sedated and sterile until their time came, but there was no humanity to spare in response to the types of crime these men had committed.

“I am trying to conduct a lesson in anatomy,” Hannibal stated matter of factly, holding the scalpel inches away from the pig’s face. “Please show some respect.”

Flicking his eyes upwards then to gage Will’s reaction, he was pleased to find him offering a small chuff of amusement in response. None of this, of course, did anything to quiet the blubbering.

“Shh,” Will said, gently, “this isn’t about you.”

And while Hannibal couldn’t quite put his finger on Will’s meaning, he found he agreed.

“If you take the second scalpel, you can follow along on his left arm,” He suggested, already pressing the tip of the blade into skin; just deep enough to draw several bright beads of blood.

Will was less cautious, and so red rivulets spilled out between his fingers. When he bit his lip in concentration, Hannibal smiled and remembered his own enthusiastic first attempts at pulling people apart to see how they worked. The scalpel’s point was finer than the blade Will had used before and the skin parted beneath it like soft, warm butter.

Under their knives, the pig had begun to wail at a shocking volume. He’d been informed of course that the basement was thoroughly soundproofed, but he continued to beg the ceiling for help until Will clamped a hand across his mouth harshly enough to split his upper lip against his teeth. The blue of his eyes was engulfed in black, his jaw tense.

“Be good for me,” he said, with an otherness that Hannibal recognised from Will’s first act of vengeance, “and I’ll make it good for you.”

The wailing turned to hopeless sobbing and Hannibal gave Will a moment to return to himself before he showed him how to use the small retractor to hold the skin back. What was left of the superficial layers was twitching violently as the body between them began to shudder and break out into a cold sweat. When they finally reached the tendons, Will was painted up past his wrist and the pig had resorted to uttering a pained prayer beneath gritted, bloodstained teeth.

Will had focussed admirably, but now he cast an uncertain glance to Hannibal.

“It’s messier than the illustrations,” he said, and Hannibal rounded the table to examine the nicked blood vessels.

After clamping the main culprits, he leaned close to Will’s ear to be heard above the incessant muttering.

“I’ve seen worse from senior medical students,” he praised, and then swallowed when – instead of shying away – Will pressed back against him as if savouring the closeness.

The unease he had felt earlier that evening returned to him then and, as he closed his eyes and willed it away, he inhaled deeply; committing Will’s scent to memory.

The moment was shattered when the pig began to laugh manically and hiss profanities at them. Hannibal leant forward and plucked a tendon as if it were a harp string and, as a calloused and tobacco stained finger snapped back unnaturally, the pig returned to sobbing.

“They’re like puppet strings,” Will said quietly, and the emotion behind the words was hard to infer.

Hannibal couldn’t see his face, but he imagined it had a sombre and thoughtful countenance; sloping eyebrows, clear eyes, a firm line in the place of soft, full lips. Will was glorious, gloved in blood, but where he had been raw and open when he first killed, now he seemed to be reticent and slipping from Hannibal’s grasp. It felt unpleasant, like passively drowning, and he reached out to place a hand on Will’s shoulder. Unseeing, Will stepped away before he could. He forced the scalpel through the tendon and it snapped loudly enough to be heard above the screaming.

“Bone, next” he said, before Hannibal had a chance to comment.

By the time they had peeled the skin back from the calves, the pig had lost consciousness. Hannibal was relieved when Will didn’t seem particularly invested in bringing him back around. There was a dull ringing in his ears, and he might have sliced his throat if he made another sound.

“This was broken,” Will said, after several minutes of silence on his part.

He scraped the flat edge of his scalpel over a dozen tiny fissures in the fibula.

“Long healed,” Hannibal observed, tilting the light just so.

“Still cracked though,” Will countered, “still changed.”

It was almost too much, that response. While games had excited him at the start, when he held all the best cards, they now set him on edge.

Saving face, he asked; “What next? I fear we’ll lose him completely in a matter of minutes.”

“The heart, then,” Will answered, with grim determination.

By the time Hannibal had wrenched back the ribs to reveal the chest cavity, the heart was unmoving, and Will had lost all sense of pretence.

“It’s so difficult to get to,” He murmured, sounding far away, “is it worth it?”

Hannibal was uncomfortably aware that the conversation was no longer about the corpse on the table between them, perhaps never had been.

“Always,” he said, feigning high spirits, and then; “heart tartare is a personal favourite of mine.”

~

When the lock clicked into place that night, Hannibal felt his shoulders unfurl minutely. He spent a long time listening at the door before he turned to pad silently down the hall to his own room. Despite the impossibly long day, he lay still but restless on top of his sheets. Some nagging intuition stopped him from sliding into bed properly and falling to sleep. It was past three in the morning when something lured him out onto the landing. It sounded like the ticking of the grandfather clock at first, but even Hannibal’s attuned hearing would have struggled to pick up on that, stowed away as it was in the study.

As he crept forward, the sound took on a more metallic timbre and lost its rhythmic quality. It was with a sinking feeling that Hannibal realised it was coming from behind Will’s door. He stood just outside at first, ready to strike out and send Will hurtling back onto his bed. He could restrain him, remind him that he couldn’t leave, offer him more near-freedoms as placation. As the manipulations of the lock grew more persistent and the sound of frantic, hopeful breathing filtered through the keyhole, Hannibal sank silently to his knees and tried to battle the feeling that it was _his_ chest that had been pried apart in the basement.

Waiting there, he knew the logical next step was to retrieve a syringe and sedative from his medical bag however he was plagued with the irrational idea that in the minutes it took him to do so, Will would slip away and Hannibal would return to an empty room.

A loud clunk sounded, and all fell silent. In the seconds that followed, a numbness took over Hannibal so that, by the time the door slid open, he felt incorporeal; like he might slip right through the floor. There was a choked sound, though it wasn’t clear which one of them had made it. Will had his shoes on; Hannibal hadn’t felt the need to ask him to leave them at the door when they returned from incinerating his past.

He had never begged; not when the soviets pilfered his childhood home, not when orphaned tormentors surrounded him, and not when Robertus lost patience and took a cane to the back of his legs. Now though, his voice took on a pleading tone.

“Don’t, Will,” he breathed.

At least Will had tears in his eyes as he ignored him and made for the stairs.

In the end, it took a lot to find peace with killing Will. If it were anyone else, he would have felt only mildly put out when he twisted and wrenched their ankle back to trip them. As he watched Will crumple and hit each stair on the way down though, he found himself dreading the definitive sound of a snapping neck. It didn’t come and, even as he forced himself to his feet to pursue him, he felt a sigh of relief leave his lips.

Will had barely gathered himself up again by the time Hannibal fell upon him, and only just managed to duck out of his reach. He jabbed out at Hannibal’s bruised rib and, as he doubled over, made for the study this time, instead of the dining room. When Hannibal had caught up with him, the betrayal had had time to settle like ash in his system but still he aimed _away_ from the solid corner of the fireplace when he took Will down. His head thunked against the thick rug instead, and Hannibal took advantage of his dazed state and pinned his legs down beneath his own.

If he had not been so broken by the deceit, he would have realised that Will could not have picked the lock with his bare hands. He grunted as something small and sharp pierced the skin of his thigh and watched with dawning realisation as Will withdrew the warped point of a fishing hook and then sunk it deep into his leg a second time. His violent flinch was all Will needed to shove him off and then fall atop him, delivering hit after hit to his face.

Hannibal assumed he was driving the hook into the flesh of his cheek when his face began to feel hot and damp. It was only as one of Will’s tears dropped from his chin that he realised it was his own grief that was painting his cheeks, not blood. Will’s eyes were wide and unseeing, looking through Hannibal instead of into him, and the pain that caused was more acute than the impact to his face or the sluggishly bleeding puncture wounds in his leg. A hoarse sound tore from him as he flung his head forward into Will’s and threw him off.

Stalking forward, Hannibal took a moment to spit the pooling blood from his mouth before he drew a poker from beside the fireplace. Will had managed to land on his feet and was inching back towards to desk.

“You’ve given it another admirable attempt, Will,” Hannibal growled, the words garbled around his split lips. “Go upstairs. We can deal with this tomorrow.”

It was as Will’s face crumbled into something like pity, that Hannibal’s resentment turned to white hot rage. He flung his arm out at an angle and watched the tip of the poker tear through Will’s shirt and draw blood like a red sash, from shoulder to hip. His letter opener came hurtling towards him then, with enough force to be heard tearing through the room. It slashed his arm on the way past and clattered noisily against the far wall at the same time as the poker slipped to the ground. Breathing harshly, Will patted his chest; hurrying to assess the damage. Hannibal didn’t bother to do the same, and had his fingers knotted in Will’s hair before he could get away. He used the purchase to haul him across the room and when he dropped him by the window, his hand came away with a clump of brown curls. It was becoming difficult to see; Hannibal would have to nick the swelling around his eyes once he had dealt with Will. He stumbled slightly, and Will kicked out at his legs to bring him down.

It was only when he tried and failed to get to his feet, that Hannibal realised he might not come out the victor. Spite and adrenaline had masked the worse of the pain, but it barraged him all at once when he began to accept that the solace he had found in Will’s company was about to be taken from him. His vision swam and when he managed to focus, Will was standing over him, marble bust in his hands. He grunted and raised it high above his head and Hannibal closed his eyes and tipped his face back.

As he waited for the bust to deliver the finishing blow, Hannibal wondered if it had taken a lot for Will to find peace with killing _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything will be tied up in the next chapter, and then there'll be a short epilogue. Thank you for the lovely response to this fic, it's strange that it's almost over.


	24. Sillage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sillage : the impression made in space after someone or something has been and gone.

The breeze over the soft, green expanse was restful; the wind hushed Will and the bowing blades of grass offered his ankles a calming caress. Some days, the snap of a twig underfoot was the most starling sound he could bare. It was a blessing then, to find a property that required one to walk to the very edge to hear even the faintest hum of traffic. Will found that he cherished the mornings; in such a vast space, everything shrouded itself in mist. It was quiet and calm, the colours muted. A little mournful perhaps, but he didn’t seek happiness, just relief.

His dog was a little more optimistic. Only two weeks in, the mottled creature cast her wide eyes up to Will and gave her tail a tentative wag. Will did his best to offer a smile in return. She’d been the first one he’d seen; the frantic barking on death row nearly frightening him off. Just three days from euthanasia, pacing the perimeter of her concrete cell, the pound had released her to Will with one hastily scribbled signature.

They spent very little time within the whitewashed walls of the house, both of them starved for the sun and sky. When the weather was kind, they slept out on the porch; a sorrowful bundle twitching under the stars. It was impossible to know where to begin in caring for himself, so Will focussed on healing the dog instead, hoping that he’d be able to follow. It didn’t seem possible; even little freedoms hurt him. The first time he dipped his toes beneath the cool current of the stream he made a sound not unlike a sob. Most days, the open sky threatened to crush him and the soft ground underfoot seemed to cave away and swallow him whole.

His dog was cautious too; staying low and prowling through the long grass with her ears pinned back. She was nothing like his pack before; bounding through any open space – there one moment and immersed in the undergrowth the next. That was okay though, Will was nothing like before either. Together, they found a sort of solace.

He’d spent the first night of freedom in a library a few hours walk from the devastation he’d left behind. When exhaustion threatened to take him, he fished the polaroid from his pocket and willed himself on in his search. He found a solitary desk, buried amongst the bookshelves, just quiet enough for him to cope. The first person he saw was the security guard the next morning, shaking him awake and forcing him out onto to street. His stolen coat covered his seeping wound but the brash manner of the guard convinced Will he wouldn’t have cared even if he’d seen it. There were two crisp notes tucked away in an inner pocket; there for an emergency he supposed. It was enough to get him where he needed to be. If his wound was infected by the time he arrived, it only added authenticity.

The killing was easy. Stripping down and burning his clothes was difficult; the coat too, Hannibal’s cologne wafted from the collar. Laying in the bed and rubbing his wrists raw on the rope he’d found in the shed was harder still. He pressed the photograph to dead fingertips and then tucked it under an overflowing ashtray; his only genuine shred of proof.

Several soft-spoken women from the FBI approached him after he’d been released from hospital and set up in temporary accommodation. Will trembled and teared up and eventually, reluctantly, agreed to help them locate the bodies. All they required were the answers to some questions. Other than that, they left him alone in his small, grey studio apartment with the help of a solicitor to muddle through his belated inheritance. He’d had nothing but time to mourn his father years before, but it was cathartic to visit his humble grave and press his forehead to the cold gravestone regadless. Resting a simple bouquet at its foot, Will accepted that the life he had had before he was taken was as good as buried alongside his father. He was irrevocably changed; a stranger to the man beneath his feet.

ꭥ

Hannibal had spent three days without a pane of glass to shield his study from the elements, so certain was he that the police would arrive at any moment. When the bust had shattered the window, and it had scattered around him like chiselled ice, he’d watched Will stagger through the frame and had stayed supine where he was as he waited for the shrill sound of sirens.

They didn’t come, and that hurt in its own way.

When the article emerged, Hannibal sighed and smiled and waited for Will to return to him; if only to kill him – his true final captor.

He didn’t come, and the hurt began to fester.

Hannibal moved through his house like a ghost; returning often to the article to see if Miss Lounds might snap an insensitive shot of Will, wherever he had found himself. He remained elusive though and, in the most painful moments, Hannibal began to wonder if he’d ever really existed. It seemed impossible now, for someone as singular as Will Graham to exist in the wanting world that Hannibal had always felt the need to alter at every turn. He had almost made peace with living unseen until he happened upon Will and was flayed by cold, blue eyes.

Will’s room should be stripped, he knew; sheets and clothes burned, surfaces wiped, questionable security measures removed. Hannibal entered it several times to do just that, and ended either on his knees at the side of the bed with his face buried in the dark quilt, or at the desk with his fingers gently stroking the lures and catching the prick of a hook from all but one. Eventually he found the pressed flower and Will’s sketched pack. He placed them on his bedside table, with that ineffectual lure, and stroked the scars on his thigh; two puncture wounds, like a viper’s bite. To think he once fancied himself the snake charmer.

ꭥ

“Therapy doesn’t work on me,” Will had said, knowing how false that statement was.

In truth, Will was looking for something more than a psychiatrist alone could give. They’d assigned him to a woman – his life had been a flurry of females since he’d been found – and she had been kind and placating and everything that Will couldn’t stand. She was professional and probably proficient with most patients, but she pitied him.

“I don’t blame you,” he had said, with a self-deprecating shrug, “I’m pitiable.”

‘The dog’ became ‘Bara’ – _stranger, foreigner_ – and Will spent every moment with her and hoped animal therapy alone would suffice. It probably would have, had he gone straight from his first prison to this bucolic freedom, but Hannibal had offered genuine human contact – the kind that didn’t rely _solely_ on survival instincts and captor bonding. He hadn’t pitied him. He hadn’t agreed with what was done to Will, but he didn’t view the affect it had on him as entirely woeful and regrettable either. He toed an impossible line between delight and disapprobation, and it was exactly what Will needed while being impossible for any other human to replicate. So, just like Bara, Will became a strange and foreign presence in the world. 

He had almost forgotten how much abject loneliness hurt. It was a heaviness, like a stomach engorged with rocks, a new one added each morning when he woke in the silent solitude of his new home. At the same time, Will felt that if he tore himself open he’d find nothing inside. No organs – certainly no rocks – just an aching abyss where his warm, pulsating pieces should be. To fill it, he drank whiskey. Straight, eye-stinging whiskey every morning and then again each time that vacant weight within taunted him. Needless to say, once he had built his tolerance back up, the empty bottles took up more room than Will himself.

During the height of his inebriation, alone because Bara had shrunk back into the shadows when he began to sway where he stood, Will dropped the bottle he had been necking and watched the thick shards gather at his feet. He thought of the shattered glass in Hannibal’s study and the mirrorless room he had been kept in with all of its creature comforts and the one-way window. He realised, with a self-loathing laugh, that he might as well be have been behind that window now. He had imposed upon himself, a third form of imprisonment and while the torment was not so unbearable as it had been in the first, it was a distinctly worse existence than the one he had shared with Hannibal.

It was not until Bara split the pad of her front paw on the shards the next morning, that Will decided to do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as it turns out, Will needs more than two chapters to get over everything that has had happened to him. I decided that was reasonable, hence the new and uncertain chapter count. Stay tuned while I figure this all out :)


	25. Monachopsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place, as maladapted to your surroundings as a seal on a beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life took a pleasant turn, and so I've been enjoying it. Sorry for the delay.

Therapy might not work on him, but Will had learnt early on in life that catharsis could be found in many things.

When his father’s terminal state became too much to bear, Will had often occupied himself with fixing things. He oiled door hinges, reinforced the garden fence, repaired shingles and made sure the old desk fan was fighting fit before the onslaught of summer. It had been these small pursuits that his father had been most grateful for, despite it being the one thing Will did solely for himself.

Not naïve enough to think the same small odd jobs could fix him now, Will invested in a rusted fishing boat that was barely capable of staying afloat. It was a yellowing thing, with a bulky standing shelter, a dented stern and a dry exhaust which jutted out to one side. On all accounts, it was the most wretched boat Will had ever seen and so it suited him and Bara just fine. _Soubrette_ was printed along its side, in a swirling, faded red font.

It had been the height of Summer when he had liberated himself, but now months had passed and the world had taken on an amber hue. It was a cold, crisp October and the chill in the air kept Will moving while Bara huddled in the wheelhouse watching his comings and goings with a tilted head.

“There girl,” he hushed, when the motor struggled to start up and the grinding startled her, “I know, I know.”

He cast a guilt-ridden glance to her bandaged paw and then fished some jerky from his duffle and tossed it to the pile of blankets she was half-swaddled in. She had followed Will onto the boat easily enough and, though he was sure she enjoyed the fresh air and treats, Will felt she would really start to relish their days on the water once he had a space heater up and running for her. For that though, he’d need a functioning engine. The inner workings were the most important, the core. He could wait to pretty her up, but the engine needed seeing to straight away.

Those first few evenings, he returned home with his hands slicked in oil up to his elbows. He’d wash and drink a more reasonably sized glass of Old Crow with a simple meal before bed. Bara had been the first to insist they sleep inside, when the weather took a turn several weeks prior. Now it had become routine to sit near his modest fireplace with book in his lap and Bara at his feet in the evenings. It was the first slither of true peace Will had experienced since his escape, though on several occasions he looked into the flames, as if in a trance, and pictured the way the firelight had hit the harsh angles of Hannibal’s face.

He had a lot of time to think; to ponder the notion of right and wrong. He felt, quite confidentially, that the world on a whole would agree that what was done to him had been wrong. He had been forced to take on the moral outrage of others in those first few days after he’d been found. The trouble lay in the fact that Will understood those same people would also condemn him, if they discovered the true nature of his vengeance. It had felt just, and he would not do a thing differently if given the chance, but the people who looked on him with butter-soft pity would recoil if they so much as glimpsed his response to the men who had brutalised him.

It was because of this, that Will made peace with abandoning the universal concept of right and wrong. And it was because of that abandonment of a hive-minded moral compass, that Will found himself having to assess Hannibal’s actions, and what he deserved within the framework of this new way of thinking. Prison, some would argue, the lethal injection perhaps. If Will was going to forge his own right and wrong, then he alone would decide what Hannibal Lecter deserved. After all, no one would ever understand his true nature better than Will.

ꭥ

Almost exactly two months since his tentative content had been razed to the ground, Hannibal uncovered Will’s whereabouts. It had taken no little amount of effort on his part, though he found it impossible to engage in much else aside from his search. Will had not forayed into the realm of social media, and certainly hadn’t made his contact details known in any directories, and so Hannibal relied solely on his prestige within psychiatric circles to gather vagaries regarding _the survivor of those appalling abductors._ For weeks, he filled various consultants with five course meals in the hope that they could offer him something even more vital than sustenance in return.

An old colleague from his time at John Hopkins was his way in; having a mutual acquaintance with a behavioural analyst at Quantico. Hannibal orchestrated a ‘chance’ meeting at a conference – after his old colleague took an unexpected, extended sabbatical and a seat opened up on incredibly short notice – and found that, while this analyst had no links to Will’s case, he was friendly with someone who did. Reveling in the fact that no one besides Will seemed terribly concerned with their online anonymity, Hannibal soon found himself an aisle over from this new lead in an intimately sized delicatessen. After five minutes, and a deep discussion on choice cuts and blue cheeses, he had obtained a recommendation for, supposedly, the best butcher in Baltimore. He needed only visit twice before, on the third attempt, they bumped into one another again and Hannibal allowed the man to clumsily schmooze his way to an invite to his next dinner party. From there it took only four glasses of red to uncover the name of the psychiatrist Will had been coerced into seeing after his escape.

He considered killing her; how dare she meddle in the depths of a mind that had only ever been plundered by Hannibal before her? Illuminated only by the slither of moonlight between heavy drapes, and clad in clear plastic, Hannibal read her notes on Will and decided that she had not so much as scratched the surface and wasn’t worth the effort. He allowed himself to smile, tight, twisted and unguarded, when he read among her final notes: _‘insists therapy does not work on him’._

Hannibal’s own brand of therapy had worked all too well, and to his own detriment.

He left no prints, no trace at all, and returned home reciting Will’s address like poetry.

ꭥ

Soulette’s engine hummed pleasantly now, beneath the flat, grey surface of the sea. Will had taken to sailing her out far enough that the angular buildings flanking the docks became a smooth black line on the horizon, before getting to work on her interior. On days like these, cold but bright and with the clamour of Christmas festivities eking out into even his small corner of the world, it was as close to civilization as he could bear to be. The point at which the clouds met the water was indecipherable and so the whole world was smooth as slate around him; a hazy void where he and Bara could pretend to exist on their own terms.

Will was painting the wood panelling inside of the wheelhouse that day. The heater purred at his feet and Bara sounded her own contented grumbles in response, led as close as she could be without burning her rapidly drying nose. He’d opted for a dark palette; white brought back memories of the worst days under Hannibal thumb and he refused to acknowledge that the reason pewter and mahogany comforted him was because they reminded him of the best.

Most recently, he had swapped his evening read for an hour or two hunched over a laptop; trying not to be perturbed by how much they had changed in just the few years he had been barred from the world. There seemed to be only one Hannibal Lecter and, when his search had quickly produced a professional headshot linked to the details of his practice, Will had made a pained sound which had caused one of Bara’s ears to stand to attention and her tail to tuck up between her legs. He was far more reachable than Will had hoped, and he was not yet sure what to do with him.

He despised him to the point of planning his death a hundred times over to the tiniest of details. He missed him enough that when he crumbled to the floor, as he often did, with his arms wrapped tight around his knees, he wanted Hannibal to be there; to take control and make rich coffee and tell him he wanted the best for him. Of course, this train of thought caused him no small amount of loathing and led straight back to picturing Hannibal stabbed and skewered and suspended by meat hooks forced through his torso.

As he swathed the final panel in paint, Will was leaning towards the kinder variation of fantasy; calmed as he was by the gentle swaying and the comforting sound of Bara’s snoring. He pictured Hannibal as he had been, beneath tree-filtered sunlight with his hair tousled by the gentle breeze skirting over the lake, the same day Will had suspected he was being driven somewhere Hannibal could dispatch of him quickly and cleanly. He knew that Hannibal cared for him – that his feelings danced somewhere between love and obsession. He knew that he himself felt, with the same strength, a dependency and an ache to be with him. If only that longing could fully dislodge the need to strangle the life out of him.

ꭥ

Hannibal had been sitting on Will’s address for quite some time. Beneath the need to see him, to _take_ him again, was the visceral fear that Will would recoil from the sight of him; the dreadful notion that Will had begun to move on with a new life with no room for Hannibal to force himself into. Will’s rejection could only lead to one outcome, and if Hannibal struggled to survive geographical distance, then something more permanent, more irreversible, would shatter him.

Lit only by the low glow of the Christmas lights across the street, Hannibal was pulled from his brooding by three measured knocks at his office door.


	26. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support and kind comments in response to this fic. It's been a hell of a journey writing this one, with the world in constant turmoil. This story has been a really wonderful distraction from everything, and reading your responses has been a wonderful source of socialisation during lockdowns and isolation.

The slats of grey parquet between Hannibal’s desk and the door seemed to stretch as he crossed them. Though there was nothing in those three measured knocks to suggest that the person beyond was anyone noteworthy – beside their unexpected nature - Hannibal took a moment to collect himself before answering; sleeves straightened, shoulders back. He had been miles deep in the type of thoughts that smothered him like tar; ankles caught in the thick roots surrounding his memory palace as a cacophony of Will’s cries and breathless fury rang out from the great doors of the Normandy Chapel and drew blood from his ears. To be torn from such prodigious suffering to face the bleak reality of his utterly _human_ loneliness was disjointing. It was hard not to imagine that the Will of his thoughts was waiting, wrathful, just outside.

He deflated to find his six o’clock, whom he had seen out only moments before, shifting from foot to foot in his waiting room. His reaction was imperceivably slight of course, and he offered a contrived, questioning smile as he let her back in.

“I’m so sorry,” she tittered, on a nervous laugh, while clumsily doffing her handbag as if it contained rocks instead of Xanax and cigarettes.

Hannibal watched the force with which it hit the floor, and the sombre way the leather sagged after, and wanted to kick it.

“Not at all,” he insisted genially, while wishing he had left the door unanswered until she had found her way back out onto the street, “though I did not expect to see you back so soon.”

“It’s the strangest thing,” she said, wringing her hands as she crossed the room to peer out from between the drapes.

“Is something wrong?” Hannibal asked, still stood in the doorway with the pitiable bag at his feet.

She had traipsed the dirty slush from the sidewalk across his venetian rug. If only she could have kept her neurosis bottled up long enough to get home; she could have called the police to inform them of her imaginary stalker instead of forcing Hannibal to extend his office hours well into the night.

“I know what you’ll say,” she started, hands up, “And I really am doing so much better. But this time it’s different. One of my tires has been slashed.”

“Perhaps you had the misfortune to drive over a nail, or something similarly sharp,” he offered, followed by an inward sigh.

She was shaking her head before he had even finished speaking.

“That doesn’t explain the man,” she rebutted in a hushed voice – more reminiscent of excitement than fear. Like someone with Munchausen’s being given a genuine cancer diagnosis. “He came towards me. He looked so threatening.”

“How so?” Hannibal asked, sliding into his coat so that he could stand with her while she waited for her breakdown provider. Perhaps the biting cold would hurry her along in actually contacting them, rather than hovering at the window.

“He’d been standing on the opposite side of the street but the second I realised my tires were flat he came straight for me. Diagonally, across the road.”

“To offer assistance, perhaps?”

She turned then; frustration evident in the lines on her face. She seemed to clock onto the fact that Hannibal was waiting on her, and cut a new line of slush through his rug before allowing him to help her into her coat.

“You won’t leave me out there, will you Doctor Lecter?” she asked, face pinched.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Hannibal forced himself to say. “What did he look like?”

“Oh, um, black I think.”

ꭥ

It was fortunate, Will thought – as he slipped into the silent expanse of the office and made towards the mezzanine ladder – that Hannibal afforded his patients with a private exit. Will left the door ajar. It spoke volumes of his Hubris, that the man kept both unlocked at any given time. It had been so difficult to leave Hannibal; both to escape his physical imprisonment and sever the emotional web that had begun to bound Will in place. It seemed equal parts fitting and unfair to be able to slip so easily back into the doctor’s domain, as if he had always belonged there. The rungs didn’t creak, it would hardly suit Hannibal to have his own furniture giving his presence away. Despite Will’s tentative ascent, the ladder didn’t betray him either and he was soon sat with his back to the wall – eyes on the door – regathering his resolve.

The butt of his gun was a bruising force at his hip. 

It took perhaps two seconds upon his return for Hannibal to clock that the opposite door was open. Will watched it happen through the bars of the bannister; silently welcoming the monster that made itself known through darks eyes and a dangerous stance. It was surreal to be looking down at him. The last time he’d seen Hannibal, he’d been looking down; though the man in question had been bloodied and beaten and ready to accept whatever final blow Will would afford him. Another moment passed, in which Will reached for his gun, before Hannibal’s voice cut like a blade through the space between them and stilled his hand.

“Hello, Will.”

It hurt to hear his name from between those lips after long enough that the memory of Hannibal’s cloying voice had become merely a tinny recreation in Will’s mind.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” Will replied, like a man with his mind made up – even as his hand continued to tremble an inch or two above the handle of his pistol.

Hannibal looked up then, on a sharp inhale, and Will felt the air knocked from his own chest in return. Will was certain he had never seen his captor fight so hard for composure – his façade normally summoned at will. His eyes went soft, then cold, and finally narrowed. His fingers twitched at his side before falling flat.

“You’ve been lurking in the shadows, Will.” He said, head still tilted back at what must have been an uncomfortable angle.

Will watched his throat bob, as sudden and sharp as the rest of him, with an aching need to be close enough to touch him there. It felt magnetic, though he was sure – if it were – that the force would be enough to rip him right through Hannibal and leave them both in bloody tatters across the polished floor.

“I met your patient several days ago,” Will answered, finally letting his hand fall to rest in his lap, “we shared stories.”

His voice may or may not have been steady, it was hard to tell with the sound of his own pulse so loud in his ears.

“You may have done a great deal of damage to her psyche,” Hannibal mused. His voice was flat. It was clear he wouldn’t have cared either way.

“You should thank me,” Will said, scathingly – the tremor in his voice finally giving him away, “I’ve guaranteed you a longstanding source of income and amusement.”

Hannibal smiled, but in a small, pained sort of way. The wary vulnerability in his eyes made Will’s chest tighten.

“Shall I come up, or will you come down?” Hannibal asked, finally letting his head drop and watching Will up through the few, fine strands of his fringe. He had not applied his product with the same dedication as Will had come to expect.

“I can shoot you just fine from here,” he said, standing and drawing his gun.

Without the bannister obscuring his view, Will could make out the faint upturn of Hannibal’s lips in response.

“I won’t stop you,” came his sombre reply, as he removed his coat and took a seat in one of the two leather chairs, in Will’s line of fire.

“You didn’t have me put away, after everything,” he said, when Will failed to act on his threat. Will could perceive not a thing from the flat way in which Hannibal spoke; no gratitude, no questioning tilt at the end of the sentence. 

“I should have,” he replied, equally monotone, “An eye for an eye.”

“Makes the whole world blind.”

“Hardly,” will bit back in response, finger itching to feel the smooth curve of the trigger.

“Well, something should be said for depth perception, at the very least,” came the retort, with a hint of the jest that so often accompanied Hannibal’s philosophical commentary.

Will huffed a bitter laugh despite himself and lowered his gun. He bowed his head and silently wished he had forced Hannibal to come to him when he’d had the chance, so that it didn’t look so much like conceding when he holstered his weapon and made his way slowly down the ladder.

“Most of the world fails to perceive anything with much depth to begin with,” he muttered.

He heard only a contented sigh in response.

“Stop that,” he snapped, whirling round once he had reached the ground. “You don’t get to enjoy yourself.”

And there was that seething hatred again – the kind that often accompanied his murderous fantasies.

Hannibal saw it too and tilted his head in response.

“I thought I might never see you again, Will. Allow me this small pleasure before you do whatever it is you came here to do.”

Will searched his face as he crossed the room to sink into the chair opposite.

“I don’t like this shade on you,” he said, placing his hands robotically along the armrests. It was unsettling, watching a man that had placed himself above law and morality roll over and show his belly.

“What shade is that?” Hannibal asked.

“Suicidal,” Will said, the word sharp and half hissed.

With a burgeoning sense of dread, he stood and took out his gun once more. The last time he would ever have to do so. The barrel pressed against Hannibal’s forehead like a mother’s kiss, cold but carrying the same level of devotion. Will swallowed, his hands shook. Hannibal sat statue still, his eyes on Will. Content to never take them off of him again as long as he lived.

Will gave him one second, then two, before he committed himself.

He fired.

A soft, short click of the trigger followed by the clunk of the magazine, followed by nothing.

Hannibal flinched so violently that Will startled and may well have fallen backwards if the doctor’s hand hadn’t shot up to take hold of his wrist in a punishing grip. His eyes were dark, dangerous, _burning_.

 _There you are,_ Will thought, with a shuddering breath _._

The man that had taken him from the hole he was ready to die in. The doctor who had bandaged his wounds. The monster who had blinded and bound him and then broken him to pieces. The one who built him back up again, stronger than before. Will had known that he needed him. For the first time though, he realised he needed _all_ of him. Some of that must have shown, beneath the tears welling in his eyes, because Hannibal dropped his wrist – the unloaded gun clattering to the ground – and his face softened in a way that was less vulnerable than before.

“ _Will,_ ” he breathed, standing and taking his face gently in both hands.

His thumbs danced across the tear tracks there.

Will let out a relieved sob in response and buckled forward, so that he was enveloped in Hannibal’s arms. He reached around him, dug his fingers into the fabric of his waistcoat and let himself be held – let himself be truly comforted by another human being for the first time since he had escaped. No platitudes, no prescriptions – just two men, both hollowed by their time apart – clinging to one another as if they might lose the other if they let go.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Hannibal stepped back, finding Will’s face with his hands again. It was comforting to see evidence of the doctor’s emotion, his dark eyes rimmed with red.

“Will you come back?” He asked, and later Will could admit to a small amount of pleasure in seeing his face drop when he said no.

“I’ll meet you for the first time, next week,” he clarified, pulling away and sniffling until Hannibal, smiling now, handed him a box of tissues from the small table beside his chair.

“I’ll be walking Bara,” he went on, rubbing furiously at his eyes with a self-deprecating laugh. “in the park two streets over from your office. You’ll be running an errand on your lunchbreak. Bara will leave muddy pawprints on your jacket.”

Hannibal’s smile fell.

“I’ll apologise, and give you my number” Will went on – and it felt good to have the upper hand, even as he balled his used tissue up and wondered what to do with it, “-to arrange for them to be dry cleaned.”

“I’ll take you to lunch while we wait.” Hannibal added, scooping the tissue from Will’s hand and placing it on the table so that he could thread their fingers together.

“Nowhere pretentious,” Will said bluntly, squeezing the hand that had found its way into his.

“We’ll compromise.”

“ _You’ll_ compromise,” Will corrected, with an arched brow.

Hannibal’s answering smile was all teeth.

“It will be nice to meet you, Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as the title suggests, this is the end of the story. In the next few weeks I'll post an epilogue to let you all know how these two ended up. Another huge thanks to everyone who read, gave kudos, commented and bookmarked!


	27. Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a brief description of how they ended up.

They didn’t live happily.

Sometimes, Will despised him and all Hannibal could do was allow it. It was as if he woke some days from a sleep steeped in the memories of their unfortunate beginnings and the sight of Hannibal brought with it nothing but thoughts of needles, restraints and burning white light. Will began these days restless and reticent and would eventually resort to cutting remarks. At his worst, Will had once descended on Hannibal – with a wild pain behind his eyes – and closed his hands around his throat. On the edge of unconsciousness, Hannibal had reached up to stroke Will’s face until he buckled under the unconditional affection and pressed his forehead to Hannibal’s, sobbing.

Their intimacy didn’t progress in the natural and passionate way that a couple’s touches often do. It wasn’t possible, after everything, for that to happen and so Hannibal left it in Will’s hands. It was ritualistic, that first time. Will guided Hannibal onto a chair and bound his arms behind him. Will’s hands were shaking, as if he were the one bound, as he reached out to touch Hannibal’s face and traced a tentative trail down around his adam’s apple and over the planes of his bare chest. The first time Hannibal was allowed to touch Will in return, they both came apart in minutes. While Will wasn’t sure he was capable of sane, it was safe and consensual and afterwards he lay in Hannibal’s arms waiting for the press of another’s body against his own to descend into the sickening feeling of maggots under his skin. It didn’t. He felt warm and anchored and a little sticky instead.

And so, they didn’t live _unhappily_ , either _._

After spending so long inside the minds of those who had hurt him, Will had no desire to complete his degree in criminology but he returned to education in a different form and pursued a degree in veterinary science instead. Resetting bones and vaccinating animals against the various forces in life that would see them come to harm acted as somewhat of a balm. That Will could tell abuse apart from genuine accidents came in handy as well; they had an ever-expanding pool of pigs to choose from when Hannibal became restless and Will’s darkness started to stir in response.

They were often like that, the cold white moon and the ruinous tide. When Will found himself dangling over the precipice of a breakdown, Hannibal would inexplicably seek him out – standing like a totem of calm control in the doorway, watching him crumble for a second or two before going to his side. When Hannibal was gripped by doubt, owing to a vestige of childhood bereavement and abandonment, Will would force him down – onto the bed if handy, if not then the couch or floor – and smother him with his body until there could be no doubt that the two were irrevocably entwined. Hands pressing gently to his throat or tangled in his hair, hips pinned by his weight, legs forced apart to make room for him; though there was no better way to prove to Hannibal that he would never leave than to hunt at his side.

It didn’t last long, that first reckless, righteous onslaught of violence. In what would come to be termed the Ripper’s Honeymoon phase, the bodies piled faster than the FBI could keep up with. They left before suspicion could fall on them and years in the future, out on the bright white and blue of the unspoiled Cuban shore, a pair of distinguished older men with a multitude of stories writ in the line of their faces, sat and welcomed in the tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished a fic? Unprecedented! Thank you all once again for the continued kudos, comments and support. The writing is fun, but it's only half of the enjoyment. Reading your feedback and chatting with like-minded fannibals makes it all worthwhile. It's strange to have actually finished this fic. I was so immersed in the Will and Hannibal of Opia for such a long time. It's so satisfying to give them a happy-ish ending though. My future writing goals? Write some fics in which Will isn't kidnapped or held against his will :')


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